The Spark and the Fire
by mille libri
Summary: Broken by the loss of the new life he had planned and the man he was to have become in the process, Boyd turns to the only safety he knows - Ava - and she begins to see him in a new light. Their path through season 2.
1. Penance

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

The crickets were chirping in the summer darkness as Boyd gingerly climbed the familiar wooden stairs. He stepped across the porch and tapped lightly on the wooden slat of the screen door with the backs of two knuckles. "Ava?" He waited, uncertain whether to knock once more, then called her name again.

Finally her voice came from inside. "Who's that?"

He hesitated before naming himself, sure that a Crowder was the last thing she'd want to see right now. But he had come, and he needed to speak his piece, and he would brave the shotgun he was certain was in her hands if that was what was necessary. "It's Boyd."

The response came quickly. "You get the hell away from here!"

"I apologize for the late hour, I … I just want a word."

From inside came the sound he had expected, the ratchet of a slug into the chamber of the shotgun, and even as her footsteps came toward the door Boyd retreated across the porch. By the time the lights came on inside and Ava threw the front door open, he was down the steps, facing her, with his hands in the air.

She opened the screen, stepping out and lifting the shotgun, pointing it directly at his chest. It was no idle threat; they both knew that. She knew how to use it—she had used it on his brother, to great effect, and under significant provocation. And Boyd had pursued her, yes, he had. No doubt he richly deserved her ire as well. "What the hell you want?" she demanded.

"I'm alone, and my hands are empty as you can see."

Ava brandished the weapon at him. "Yeah, well maybe you can use 'em to keep this shot from rippin' open your chest."

"Well, I can only imagine that you'd want to do that, Ava, given our history."

"Boyd, I gotta warn you. If I start countin' down from ten, I may lose patience at five."

Clearly, if he was going to get across the point of this nocturnal visit, he was going to have to get right down to it, with no preamble. As simply, as sincerely as he could, he said, "I just came to say I'm sorry."

She took a step backward, shaking her head, like she didn't understand what he had said. Most likely, she didn't believe. He couldn't blame her. For so much of his life, he had been a man who could not be believed.

Boyd stepped backward. "I will leave now, and disturb you no further." He stepped backward, letting his hands fall, turning away and walking off into the darkness.

He stopped when he heard her call out after him, "Sorry about what?"

Trying to remember the words as he had practiced them, Boyd walked back into the circle of light from the front porch. "So many things that I have done to you."

"Well, I want to hear this."

That was encouraging. He hadn't expected her to be so receptive. "Well, it's hard to know where to begin," he said carefully. "I suppose I could start with the last time I saw you. I held you hostage in your own home, and I instigated a shoot-out in your dinin' room."

The shotgun didn't waver in her hands, and her eyes blazed with anger. "That didn't end so bad, far as I was concerned."

In truth, it hadn't ended badly for Boyd, either. It had led directly to his learning to find God, to his learning to become a better man. Through the aegis of Raylan Givens, which was entirely too humorous to be contemplated in a serious moment such as this one. Boyd thought back to the next mile marker in his crimes against Ava. "Well, before that, for years I lusted after you, and I was far from subtle. And that was wrong. Not only because you were my brother's wife, but because it … it was unseemly, unwanted, and it made you uncomfortable." Looking at her now, framed against the porch, that shotgun in her hands, Boyd could admit she was a beautiful, wild woman—but he didn't feel that dreadful urge toward her. Not now that he knew it was wrong.

"If by uncomfortable, you mean it made my skin crawl, then yes."

"But by far my biggest regret concerns my brother Bowman."

"What, you wish he was never born?" Ava's lips had pinched together at the mention of the name, and Boyd could see the ghost of his brother's abuse in the tension that had gathered in her body.

"No, no, no," Boyd hastened to clarify, "I don't question the will of God bringin' any soul into this world. My regret is that …" He moved closer to her, wanting her to see how very sorry he really was. "I did nothin' to stop, or in any way curtail his atrocious behavior. I know how he was, Ava."

She stiffened, the barrel of the gun wavering in her hands for the first time.

"Yet I took no action, and for that I am deeply, deeply sorry. Now, if there is anything that I can do to atone for that which I have done, I will gladly do it." He spread his hands apart again, knowing there was a very real possibility that she might shoot him in retribution, and ready to accept that if it was the will of God.

Ava lifted the gun again, leveling it carefully at his chest. "How 'bout what you do for me is you leave here and you never see me again. Let's start there."

It wasn't what he had hoped for. He had hoped she would give him a chance to truly make up for his sins. But if this was what she needed from him, he would accept it. "All right." He turned and walked away, satisfied that he had said what needed to be said. If more was to come of it, if Ava required some penance of him, she knew where to find him. He would leave his brother's widow in peace.

* * *

When he was gone, Ava closed the door and leaned back against it, clutching the shotgun to her chest. Let this be the end, she thought. No more of Boyd's eyes on her, hungry and possessive. No more of Bo's anger, the anger that never did her a damn bit of good because it always missed the demon that lived inside his sons. No more of Raylan's easy charm and even easier body, which had never meant what she wanted it to mean. She was on her own now, and that was the way it would stay.


	2. Failed

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Boyd wasn't sure how long he had been walking. His head rung from the blows Johnny had given him, his heart ached from his father's words, and God seemed lost to him, somewhere far above this empty land where everything he had worked for had come to nought.

Behind him, in the direction of the camp, he heard sounds. Faint sounds. They seemed vaguely familiar, insinuating themselves into his mind. Fireworks?

Guns.

He stopped, looking back. No. It couldn't be. "No," he said out loud, turning and running back the way he had come.

"No. No. No." Whether the words were his breath or just his heartbeat, he wasn't sure.

By the time he reached his camp, the clearing in the woods where all his work had been focused, where he had begun to create something to make up for all that he had destroyed in his life, it was all over. His men hung from the trees, their blood still dripping sluggishly onto the ground.

Boyd fell to his knees in front of them, wishing he had never left, wishing he had had the strength to stand up to his daddy. The eyes of his men, open and staring at him, wished the same thing.

He raised his arms to the heavens and screamed, wordless, guttural cries drawn from his very soul. All he could muster in this moment.

Time passed, the woods silent but for his steadily hoarsening voice.

At last he had screamed himself out. No amount more of his grief or his anger would call back what had occurred today or restore the lives of his men. They were with the Almighty now. Maybe at some point the Almighty would deign to share with Boyd the reason he hadn't been called home along with the others, maybe he wouldn't. But these men were Boyd's flock, and he would tend them as he had been called to do.

He got up off his knees and found a hatchet, cutting them all down with as much care as he could take. And then he picked up a shovel and began to dig.

It was full dark by the time the last grave was filled. He had taken his coat off, put it on again, taken it off, put it on again, as the weather and the exertion ebbed and flowed. But it was done now. He could rest. Taking up his Bible, he sank down against the rocks, facing the fresh mounds, his body and soul wearied beyond measure.

He opened the Book, squinting at the words in the light of the lantern he had placed near the graves when the light began to fail. But he could find nothing of comfort in the marks on the page, nothing to approach what he was feeling in this moment. He closed the Book again with a solid thump.

"Dear Heavenly Father, I'm not gon' pretend to understand. You told me what you wanted done, and that's what we did." He panted, trying to catch his breath, trying to feel the presence of the Almighty here in this empty darkness. "How could you let it end like this? All these men …" He gestured at the mounds with the Book in his hand. "Trusted me to lead them on the path of righteousness. For Your Name's sake." He looked up, trying to see something, anything, in the trees above him or the stars beyond. "All these men came to You because they believed in me." Tears were gathering in his eyes, thickening his throat. He looked down at the Bible in his hands, the Bible which hadn't stopped what happened today. "And now they're dead." He looked up toward God again. "I'm gon' need a sign. I'm gon' need to know that their sacrifice meant somethin' to You."

But there was nothing. No sign. No word. Nothing anywhere but himself, Boyd Crowder, who had failed, again, and been failed, by fathers both earthly and heavenly.

He no longer felt the need to cry. What would be the point of tears? "Maybe," he whispered, "I've just been talkin' to myself this whole time."

If God wasn't real, then what had he been doing here? Nothing of value. And what was there left for him, in Harlan or anywhere? Again, nothing of value.

He got up from the ground, leaving the camp there just as it was, a final resting place for everything he had hoped to become, and began to walk.


	3. Lost

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Ava was just cleaning up the kitchen after her supper when it happened. She had been waiting for it, with heightened anticipation since Boyd's visit the other night. At first, she had thought Boyd was there on his father's say-so—she still wasn't quite sure he hadn't been. But now another voice was calling her from outside her house, and it was time to face the music.

She pulled aside the curtain, seeing Boyd and Bowman's cousin Johnny standing there. He put his hands up in a surrender pose when he saw her, calling out, "Hey, Ava."

He might look defenseless, but he sure as hell wasn't. Still, she had to come out eventually, and it might as well be while she could see what was coming. Ava unlocked the door, shotgun in hand, and stepped out on the porch. "What are you doin' here, Johnny?"

Johnny had never been a good liar. He hesitated too long before answering, so she wouldn't have believed him even if he weren't Johnny Crowder. "It's Raylan. Got some bad news."

Ava lifted the shotgun, pointing it at him—but the ruse had worked enough for their purposes, she guessed, because as she took a step toward Johnny, gloved hands came out of the darkness and grabbed the gun barrel, jerking it out of her hands. She shrieked, but it was already too late. Bo's men, since that was who they had to be, put a bag over her head and held her steady, despite her struggles.

Behind her, she could hear Bo's voice, and she shouted more, kicking and twisting. They weren't taking her without a fight.

And then something collided with her forehead, and she was gone, somewhere far away from Harlan.

* * *

Boyd hadn't been entirely certain where he expected the car to take him when he got in and started driving. He merely let it gather speed and pilot itself down the highway. When it pulled in to the motel where Raylan lived, he wasn't entirely surprised. Who else would understand the way fathers and sons worked in Harlan? Raylan was as much a mystery to Arlo as Boyd was to Bo.

When he opened the door, he found two dead bodies at his feet. Dead men everywhere. There was no getting away from them. He hoped he wouldn't have to bury these.

Raylan came from the bathroom, reaching for his gun immediately, but he halted when he saw Boyd.

"What in God's name, Raylan?"

"Your daddy sent 'em after me."

"Dear Lord." Boyd couldn't draw his eyes away from the men. Was there no end to the number of lives his father would be responsible for ending today?

"What are you doin' here?" Raylan demanded.

Boyd shook his head, trying to find words. Usually he had a surfeit of them, enough and to spare for every occasion, but today … "I—I am lost, Raylan." It was all he could think of to say.

"The hell's that mean?"

"I sent my flock to slaughter."

"I'm not followin' you. Boyd?"

"My … my daddy, he …" Boyd couldn't form the words. He could barely think. "He—he killed all my men, Raylan." He saw the bed and thought it would be good to sit down, so he did. "Killed all of 'em," he repeated.

Something beeped next to him, repetitively. Raylan's cell phone. He stepped past Boyd, never taking his hand from the gun, and reached for the phone.

From his seat on the bed, Boyd could see into the bathroom, where Arlo Givens sat, a blood-stained bandage on his arm. Unusual though it was to see both Givens men in the same room, Boyd could barely register enough curiosity to ask what had happened.

"He took a bullet," Raylan answered, with his admirable succinctness. Putting the phone to his ear, he said, "Ava?" And then he froze, the concern in his expression cooling and hardening, the phone still pressed to his ear. "You're on Ava's phone," he said to the person on the other end of the line. After a moment, he continued, "So, what happens now? … Yeah, I figured that. … I'll be alone. … My life for hers?"

Somewhere along the way Boyd's weary brain followed enough to understand what happened. His daddy hadn't been satisfied with taking away Boyd's men, ruining his dream, he had to go after Ava, too, to punish her for finally standing up to Bowman.

When Raylan put the phone down, Boyd summoned up the energy to ask. "He has Ava?"

"Yeah."

"Where's he want you to go?"

Raylan was already checking his gun, preparing to leave. "West towards Bulletville."

Boyd could feel his head beginning to clear, the adrenaline of a situation that needed to be dealt with catapulting him out of the depths. "He has a cabin out in Brody Holler."

"Is that right?"

Standing up, sure now of what he needed to do, Boyd said, "I know every inch of Brody Holler."

Raylan looked at him, calculating the odds, trying to decide if he thought Boyd was in this with his daddy. It was a good question, and there had been a time it would have been true—but that time was not today.

"All right. Let's go."


	4. Sniper

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Boyd and Raylan were quiet in the car for a while, both worried for Ava, both angry with their fathers. Raylan drove steadily, staring straight ahead out the window.

Dawn was coming before he spoke. "How many men he got with him?"

Boyd thought about it, tried to count. "Well, you got Heckle and Jeckle, so that leaves Hesler, Rufus, my cousin Johnny, and two other men."

"Any of 'em good with a gun?" My, but Raylan was cool. There was no emotion in his voice. Boyd had no doubt Raylan believed he could take them all. And maybe he could.

"They're not as good as you," he told his old friend, meaning it sincerely.

Raylan's eyebrows went up, trying to determine whether Boyd was merely blowing smoke, and he almost cracked a smile. At last he said, "You were tellin' the truth, huh? This conversion."

This was it, the moment Boyd had wanted to arrive at, the chance to talk these things through with his old friend, but he no longer knew what he wanted to say. "Was I? I don't know now, Raylan, I'm so confused."

"Yeah." Raylan snorted a little. His momentary belief had passed, and he was back to working through in his mind whatever plan he imagined Boyd must have.

"Do you believe in God?" Boyd asked. Suddenly the answer seemed very important.

Raylan thought it over, taking the question seriously. "I do."

"Tell me about your God, Raylan."

"Eh, you know. White hair, long beard, sits on a heavenly throne."

The seriousness had passed. As was his wont, Raylan had deflected the question with humor. Boyd was not surprised. And it didn't matter anyway. He was no longer certain what he believed, except that everything that had happened yesterday, and everything that would happen today, was his fault. "I set all this into motion, didn't I?"

"Actually," Raylan offered, "I think me shootin' Tommy Bucks might've had somethin' to do with it."

"Do you regret it? In the face of all that has come since?"

"He didn't leave town when I told him to. He brought it on himself."

Which was yet another way of avoiding giving a straight answer to a direct question, Boyd noted.

"If it adds to your thought process any, I'll tell you that I'm both sorry and glad that you've come back to Harlan."

Raylan glanced briefly at him, one eyebrow popping as he considered the comment. "Oh, it adds to my thought processes. Maybe a little too much."

"I do always like to provoke thought."

"That you do," Raylan agreed. "That you do."

They pulled up on the road to the cabin, far enough away that no one would be aware of their arrival.

"I'll approach them straight up the front, you go around the back. If you can get Ava out, do it," Raylan told him.

"Well, I'm gonna need a gun."

Raylan gave that some thought. He took out his gun, weighing it in his hands, his concerns over whether Boyd was trustworthy in this particular instance clear on his face. At last he decided in favor, and handed the gun over.

Boyd got out of the car, tucking the gun into his waistband.

From inside the car came Raylan's voice. "Understand, Boyd, you take advantage of this situation, I'll hunt you down like a dog. If I'm not dead." Glancing at Boyd out the open door, he added, "And you're not dead."

"Were you afraid you give me a gun I'd turn it on you?" Boyd asked.

Without another word, Raylan drove off, avoiding a direct question once more. The tires passing mere centimeters from the toes of Boyd's boots were answer enough on both sides. He shut the car door as it passed and began making his way through the woods around toward the back of the cabin. He believed Ava would be alive. His father wouldn't balk at killing a woman, especially the woman who had killed his beloved son, but he wouldn't want to do it as long as he thought he could get something of value for keeping her alive. After all, a person only had one life to trade. Once spent, the coin could never be used again.

At least, that's what Boyd told himself as he passed between the trees. In truth, that was more his own thought process than his father's, but it was comforting to believe just at the moment—and he would know the truth soon enough. No sense in dwelling on it now.

He reached the back of the cabin unmolested, disappointed in his father's arrogance. Had he really believed Raylan Givens would come alone?

To Boyd's great relief, Ava was alive, tied up and gagged on the floor of the cabin. Her eyes lifted to his as he came quietly in through the door, one finger to his lips. Unnecessary, since she was gagged, but she could still make noise if she thought he was there to kill her, and that would not be good for anyone. One of his father's men stood next to her, his attention so riveted on what was outside the window that he hadn't heard the faint creak of the door.

Boyd raised the gun, steadying it, and gave a low whistle. The man turned, raising his own gun as he did so, and Boyd shot him through the neck. A justified shooting, self-defense, he thought. Raylan would be pleased.

Ava squealed in surprise behind the gag as the gun sounded in the room, and outside, Raylan took advantage of the distraction to get on top of the situation.

As Raylan led his father toward the cabin, Boyd came out, his gun leveled at his father's head. "Raylan, I'm gonna need you to step away from my father."

"Boyd?" Raylan asked, confused as to which of them Boyd was intending to menace, as they were both fully in his line of fire. "You don't want to do that."

It was true, either way. Boyd didn't want to shoot either his father or his old friend, but one of them richly deserved it.

His father was smiling, seeing Boyd's presence as salvation.

"Not something I want to do, my friend, but something I have to do." Keeping his intentions obscure, Boyd moved closer. "Step back, please."

"You didn't come to save my ass, did you, boy?" his father asked, the picture finally coming clear to him.

"No, Daddy, I did not." The hand holding the gun quivered a bit and Boyd reached his other hand to steady it.

"You gonna shoot me, son? Are you?"

"Maybe."

"It don't really seem right. I had a chance to kill you and I didn't do it."

"That's where you're wrong, Daddy. More'n one way to kill a man. You can kill his physical body, or you can kill the spirit within."

His father had never been one for metaphysical arguments. "You gon' pull the trigger or you gonna talk me to death?"

The sound of the gunshot was loud in Boyd's ears, and a spray of blood erupted from his father's chest. It took him a moment to realize that he had not been the one doing the shooting.

Raylan was quicker on the uptake, looking around for the sniper. Boyd could only stare in horror as his Daddy fell to his knees on the ground, his eyes widening as the realization of his death came to him. But there was no time for contemplation of the situation, because the next shot took Boyd in the shoulder, knocking him back onto the ground. He was up again as quick as he could even as more shots rang out and he and Raylan scrambled for the comparative safety of the interior of the cabin.


	5. Pressure

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

There was no further gunfire for a while after they closed the cabin door behind themselves. While Raylan checked for more weapons, Boyd sank down next to Ava under the window and untied her as best he could with one hand. The wound in his shoulder throbbed, but he'd be all right for a while.

He handed Ava a gun, and leaned his head back against a cabinet built into the corner of the wall.

"What happened out there?" Ava asked.

"Gunshots," Raylan answered succinctly.

"Yeah, I think I got that part. But who was doin' the shooting? Who are these people?"

Raylan was by the window, peeking out the front. Outside, Boyd could hear the swish of tires on the dirt road. More arriving, then. "Raylan, who's out there?"

"Miami gun thugs, I suspect."

Ava frowned. "What do they want?"

"Me," Raylan said, as though it should have been obvious. It probably should have, Boyd reflected.

"You thinkin' about giving yourself up to save us?" Ava asked him.

"If I thought that'd work, I might consider it, but I'm gettin' the impression they intend to kill us all."

Boyd tried to think over the pain. "How many you figure are out there?"

"More'n one."

"I think I saw two in the trees," Ava said.

"Looks like we got two more in the vehicle." Over his shoulder, Raylan called, "Ava?"

"Raylan?"

"Next time I ask you to get out of Harlan …"

"I'll get the hell out of Harlan!"

"You do seem to have a penchant for gettin' abducted."

"Well, hey, it's a knack."

During their banter, Boyd had been thinking about his father, about the surprised look on Bo's face as he fell. It wasn't clear to Boyd if his father had thought Boyd had shot him after all, or if he had known Boyd hadn't yet been able to work up the determination. "Is my daddy movin'?" he asked Raylan.

"No."

The word was flat and uncompromising. Undeniable. Boyd could pretend that his father was playing possum, but shot through the chest like that? He would have moved because of the pain by now. Boyd would have to face the fact: His father was dead. It wasn't a reality he had considered, life after Bo. He had been so focused on his revenge; that had been the end game. Now … well, what would he do now? Other than get out of here alive, that was.

Of course, if he had to be trapped in a cabin surrounded by people who wanted to kill him, Raylan Givens was the man he'd want to be trapped with. Cool-headed, resourceful, and a hell of a shot.

Raylan shifted from one window to another, looking out. "Okay. Ava?"

"Yeah?"

"That window over your right shoulder."

"Yeah?"

"When I say, stick your gun out and take two shots."

"At what?" Ava snapped.

"Don't matter." Raylan's voice was calm.

"All right."

"Now," Raylan said, and Ava stuck the gun out the window and fired off her shots. Immediately, Raylan fired out his window at the back of the cabin.

The worst part of having been shot, Boyd reflected, was how much more fun this would be if he was up and about, helping Raylan with the plan. The two of them, working together … they'd be out of here in no time.

"One down," Raylan said, and moved from that window to the next.

Boyd had had his hand over the wound in his shoulder since he'd come in, but the blood was starting to pulse out between his fingers. He'd need to put more pressure on. Looking around, he saw a cloth on the table over Ava's shoulder. No doubt it was filthy, but would have to suffice. "Can you hand me that rag?"

She scootched over and pulled it down off the table, careful not to let her head or hand appear in the window to form a target, and then shifted back over, sticking the bundled up cloth under Boyd's shirt and holding it there, maintaining pressure.

Boyd groaned at the contact. Hopefully they wouldn't be in here much longer. He'd be useless if he lost too much more blood. He wondered if any of his father's men would be coming out to the cabin looking for them. His cousin might show up, he imagined. "Where's Johnny?" he asked Ava.

"Bo shot him at my house. Said that he betrayed him to you. Said everyone would think that I—I shot another Crowder and ran."

"Is he dead?" Boyd felt a pang of guilt at that. Johnny was a bit on the gutless side, and always out for his own gain, but still, he was family, and if what Ava said was true, it was Boyd's fault he'd been shot.

"I don't know," Ava answered. "He's gut-shot."

Gut-shot, lying there at Ava's untended all this time? Johnny was almost certainly dead. "Oh, dear Lord."

Two more shots came from the back of the cabin and Raylan rushed into the room where Boyd and Ava sat huddled together under the window. He slid across the floor to avoid creating a target, and shouted through the open window, "I got your man out back! That leaves three of us, only two of you. You start walkin', we'll hold our fire."

It was a good bluff, and Raylan had delivered it well—but the rain of gunfire from an automatic weapon that came through the wall and windows in response indicated that the unknown assailants weren't interested in the offer. The three of them huddled on the ground, waiting for the guns to empty themselves, or the shooters to grow bored, whichever came first.

Boyd groaned. The wound in his shoulder had not been improved by his sudden movement.

"You guys good?" Raylan asked breathlessly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good," Boyd answered. What was a gunshot in the shoulder? A minor inconvenience. "You good, Ava?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't happen to bring your rocket launcher, did ya?" Raylan asked.

"I didn't think to pack one."

From outside came a woman's voice. "All we want is Raylan Givens!"

"I'm Raylan Givens!"

Boyd shouted, "No, I'm Raylan Givens!" After all, why should Raylan have all the fun?

"You tryin' to be funny?" Raylan demanded.

"A little."

The woman's voice promised, "We get Givens, the other two can walk."

Boyd looked at Raylan across the room. "I ain't goin' anywhere. They killed my daddy."

"You came here to kill your daddy yourself."

"Well, that's different."

"How?"

"You got to kill the two men who came after your daddy, you give me the same courtesy."

"Why don't we all just run?" Ava suggested.

"Well, someone's gotta keep 'em here for the other two to have a chance," Raylan said. "And if we all stay here, night comes, we're dead." They were all silent for a moment, as Raylan waited for Boyd to volunteer to go, and Boyd waited for Raylan to volunteer to go, and Ava waited for them both to make up their minds already.

"I'll stay, then," Boyd said.

"Boyd. I'm askin' ya. Take Ava out of here."

Boyd looked over at Ava. That would be the manly thing to do, and he was compromised by the shoulder wound … but these people had killed his daddy and taken away his vengeance. Then he looked at Raylan and remembered how all-fired stubborn his old friend could be, and knew it wasn't worth any further argument. He looked at Ava. "Come on." He kept low, moving past Raylan as he lay there on the floor.

Behind him, Ava considered being stubborn her own self, but appeared to reach the same conclusion regarding Raylan's obstinacy that Boyd had, and she came after him. They went out the back, making their way through the woods, leaving Raylan shouting at the assailants.

"We really going to leave him here?" Ava whispered at him.

"Hell, no. They shot my daddy. You go, I'll stay with Raylan."

She looked like she wanted to argue, but there was no time, so she went, running like an antelope, Boyd thought admiringly, watching her for a moment before he made his way around the cabin, moving quickly from tree to tree.

Boyd saw Raylan come out of the cabin, hands in the air, and a woman move out from around the big black SUV parked there, her hands also in the air—and then he saw a man come from behind the car with a gun leveled at Raylan. As the woman whipped out the gun she'd stuffed in her waistband, Boyd shot the man with the rifle he had taken off their dead compatriot behind the cabin, cursing at the wound in his shouler for having spoiled his aim. He'd clipped the man in the side, but not killed or incapacitated him, and a spray of bullets flew his way in response. Boyd ducked behind the tree, letting it take the brunt of the gunfire.

Raylan's hidden gun finished the man off, and then he hid behind one of the stone columns of the cabin porch while the woman kept shooting at him, covering her own retreat back to the comparative safety of the car. She made it, whipping the car around and heading back the way she had come even as Raylan ran after her, firing a stream of bullets into the vehicle. He shattered the back window, but didn't slow her down.

Boyd came out of the trees to join him.

"Is he dead?" Raylan asked.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Where's Ava?"

"She's running through the woods. Where you goin'?"

"I'm goin' after the young lady with the automatic weapon."

Boyd leveled the rifle at his old friend to punctuate his next words. "I'll get her."

Raylan turned around, and they watched each other, taking each other's measure yet again. "What're you gonna do after you get her?"

"I ain't quite figured that out yet. You gonna shoot to stop me?" In an even face-off, Boyd thought he had a fair chance to take Raylan, but in his current condition, even having the edge was no guarantee.

"Maybe."

"I'm pretty sure you're empty."

"You gon' bet your life on that?"

They looked at one another, and Boyd was moved to tell the God's honest truth. "No, Raylan, I'm gonna bet my life on you bein' the only friend I have left in this world."

Raylan didn't move; neither did he argue with the statement, surprising though it may have been, and Boyd put the gun down and headed toward his daddy's car. The keys were in it, as he had suspected they would be, and he put it in gear, ignoring the intensifying pain in his shoulder.

He turned the car around and drove it past where Raylan still stood, the two of them sharing one more look before Boyd drove away, sure as he had ever been of anything that Raylan was considering shooting him anyway … and equally sure that Raylan wouldn't do it.


	6. Waiting

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Boyd steered the car along the dirt road, pushing the gas pedal to catch up with the Miami woman's SUV. That was a bigger and a faster car than his, and she had a lead on him, but he was Boyd Crowder, and today he would prevail.

His determination to get revenge for the killing of his father, and to get something back for himself after having his father's life snatched right out from under his own retributory hands, kept his mind sharp despite the steady trickle of blood from the shoulder wound that wet his shirt and seeped under his belt in a truly uncomfortable manner. As long as he could stay on the road, he could catch her, and then she would rue the day she had appeared in Harlan and taken on the Crowders.

The Crowders, he thought. Not that they existed any longer. His father lay dead back in Bulletville, and Johnny undoubtedly was gathering flies on Ava's porch if she was to be believed, and he saw no reason to doubt her description of events. That left Boyd as the only remaining Crowder. Boyd, and Ava herself. Crowder by marriage she might be, but in many ways she was as ruthless and bent on destruction as if it was her born name. Boyd had to wonder what she would do now that no one was after her attempting to avenge Bowman's death. She had married his brother when she was so young—too young to be certain of who she was or who she intended to be. Now that the world lay before her … at least, the world as contained within Harlan County, Kentucky … how would she tackle it? What would she want from it?

A casual observer of the past few months would imagine she might move on with Raylan, but Boyd knew both his old friend and his former sister-in-law very well, and what he had seen of them in that cabin had not indicated a relationship in good health. Raylan was a troubled soul, always had been, and too charming for his own good. Women came easily to him—but he had a hard time keeping them. Or so it had been in their youth, and Boyd had seen no sign that things had changed in the fullness of Raylan's maturity.

A squirrel darted across the road and Boyd swerved to avoid it, his shoulder bumping against the door as he did. A stab of pain shot through him, the road blurring in front of him for a moment, and he felt a great weariness settle on him.

"There is no time for this," he told himself sternly. There would be time to rest later, when he had accomplished the task before him. With an effort, he straightened the car, pushing down on the pedal to spur the machine on to even greater speed.

All too soon the moment he had dreaded was upon him—a fork in a paved road, with no dirt marks to tell him which direction his quarry had taken. He brought the car to a halt and leaned his head on the steering wheel, allowing his eyes to close briefly.

Not briefly enough. Boyd jerked himself back to alertness with an effort. He did not yet have the luxury of either giving way to the weakness in his limbs brought on by blood loss or of going to get himself patched up. He needed to think, and to think clearly.

Getting out of the car, he walked to the trees on the side of the road, leaning his head against the rough bark. If he was a Miami gun thug, and a female one at that, where would he be going right now? A base in Harlan? No. Those contacts would be known by the Marshal service, and she knew that Raylan was unharmed and could call for backup. No, her best bet would be to make her way out of Harlan County altogether. That big powerful car she was driving would take her a long way—but Boyd didn't believe she would be interested in driving all the way back to Miami, even if it was the quickest way to get beyond his reach and Raylan's and back into the protection of her own people.

The airport, then. To await a small plane that could fly her back. That was where she would go. And Boyd would take the few moments needed to bind his shoulder and try to stem the flow of blood long enough, and then he would be there waiting for her.

She had killed a Crowder. Before she left Kentucky, she would face her own end at the hands of another. That was how justice worked.


	7. Semantics

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

He sat watching at the airport for hours, waiting, enduring the throbbing in his shoulder as some kind of penance for having failed at his own task. Perhaps his father would have been dead either way—but at least if Boyd had shot him it would have been justified. Retributive. Well-earned. This way … his daddy was just another casualty in a long line of mistakes, which was hardly a fitting end for a Crowder.

Rain began to pour as the daylight waned, and Boyd began to wonder if perhaps he had been wrong. What could have taken her so long? Was she injured? He hadn't thought as much. Had she had transportation issues? Those could be inconvenient, he allowed, feeling almost sympathetic as he leaned back beneath the shelter of a conveniently placed tarp over some crates.

At last, almost simultaneously, a semi pulled up and a small plane landed, and Boyd understood—she had been waiting for the arrival of her people. A private plane sent from Miami, rather than chartering one in Kentucky.

Well, he was already here. And he had waited long enough.

As soon as the semi pulled to a stop, he yanked the door open, wrapped an arm around her waist, and hauled her out, dropping her on her backside on the wet tarmac. A gun flew from her hand, indicating that he had been just in time to save the life of the trucker she had kidnapped. His good deed for the day, it appeared.

He retrieved the gun. Waste not, want not, as his granddaddy had always said. When a tool came to hand so conveniently, it was just as well to use it. He cocked it and aimed it at her head.

And then from behind him he heard the voice that had bedeviled him all day calling his name. Raylan Givens. The Jiminy Cricket to his Pinocchio, and about as welcome at this particular moment.

He glanced over his shoulder, rain running down his face unchecked, and hollered, "How 'long you been followin' me?"

"Truck stop. I can take it from here, all right."

He'd known the visit to the truck stop had been a mistake—but a man needed sustenance, after all, even if it came wrapped in plastic. But he wasn't going to let Raylan Givens, however intrepid, get between him and the vengeance he had come for. "I think I got it from here, Raylan."

"You just gonna execute her?"

"Well, I wouldn't call it an execution. More like retribution. She killed my daddy."

"That's what you wanted to do! And besides, the gun thug behind the tree killed your daddy, and I got him."

Semantics, Boyd thought. It was the principle of the thing. "Are you gonna split hairs with me?"

"I'm just sayin'."

"Well, what's to stop me from pullin' this trigger, Raylan? That it would be a sin?" What had happened to the man who believed God's Word, who had been the Lord's shepherd on earth? He was gone. Boyd had felt his spirit leave, and what stood here now was nothing but a shell … but a shell who knew what his duty was to his father, and to himself.

Raylan's voice came strong and certain. "Don't get me wrong, I have no moral objection to you killin' her. You understand, miss? The life you've led."

The woman on the ground wasn't paying any attention to Raylan, which was intelligent, given the pistol Boyd was pointing at her.

Raylan finished, in a different tone, his professional tone, "But I need her. Alive."

"And if I don't comply?"

The answer came in gunshots. For a split second, Boyd thought they were aimed at him, but he had never been slow on the uptake, and he realized the bullets were passing over his shoulder, turned, and fired in his own right at the man emerging from the airplane, even as the woman on the ground cried out.

The man in the airplane got off some impotent rounds from his high-powered weapon before falling backward into the plane. Boyd and Raylan watched for a moment to be sure he was dead, then turned their eyes to the woman, who was still groaning, clearly now in pain. Her compatriot had been shooting at her, then … or had been an unfortunately poor shot.

Raylan holstered his weapon. "Boyd. Nice shot." And then his fist came out of nowhere, smashing into Boyd's face.

Boyd fell backward against the cab of the truck, the throbbing in his face joining the cadence with the throbbing in his shoulder, which he had been able to ignore up till now but no longer could. As he sagged against the cab, Raylan relieved him of his weapon.

Through the window of the cab, Raylan shouted at the truck driver to take Boyd to the hospital. Weakened and in pain, lost and adrift in so many ways, Boyd no longer had the strength to argue, even as Raylan grasped the woman's arm and hauled her, grunting and protesting all the way, to the plane.


	8. Departing

_Thank you for reading! No update next week, but I'll be back on schedule the week after._

* * *

As Boyd lay in the hospital bed, feeling the stitches in his shoulder itch, he was tempted just to let go, to drift off into sleep knowing he was being looked after, to let the thoughts that he had held back all day with vengeance and pain and determination be held off for a while longer with pain medication and sleep. But nothing had ever been accomplished by wishing away the time, or by giving up. Crowder men didn't quit, not until they had enough lead in them to keep them down, and Boyd was far from that benchmark by a long, long way.

So he opened his eyes and looked up at the industrial lights in the ceiling and thought about his next step. His men were dead. His daddy was dead. His chance at vengeance had flown off into the night with his former friend. What was he now? Who was he?

He was a Crowder. That he had always been. But if he was the last remaining Crowder, that no longer meant as much as it once had. In fact, it was a heavier burden by far, because he and he alone could define what and who a Crowder was.

It was no longer an evangelist, he was sure of that. No longer a spiritual leader of men. Uncertain of his own spirit, Boyd felt content to let other men pray or not, as they chose, and to whom they chose. If there was a God, and if He had any use for Boyd Crowder, He would show Himself in His own time … and in the meanwhile, Boyd didn't intend to bother his head any further about it.

But if he was no longer going to lead men spiritually, could he step into his daddy's shoes and lead them toward wealth and power by means of the narcotics trade? Boyd considered that, and felt nothing but distaste. That was no way for a man to make a living, luring others on to their destruction.

He sighed, having felt certain of his eventual destination in his heart long before he had allowed himself down this theoretical path. Coal dust was in his very blood and bones. It was the beating heart of Kentucky, the honorable profession of countless men now and in the past. And—Boyd allowed himself this small amount of pride—he had been good at it. Yes, he had.

Movement in the hallway outside his room caught his attention, and he lifted his head, ignoring the twinge of pain in his shoulder as he did so. The floor was mostly quiet at night, but a nurse had passed by, studying a clipboard as she went.

The sight of her wakened Boyd from his reverie and brought into focus the true peril of his situation. He couldn't stay here. Sooner or later, the law—no doubt in the form of the always indefatigable Raylan Givens—would come knocking on the door of this room where he reposed in all the indignity of a hospital gown, and would almost certainly have a reason to return him to incarceration for some period of time. And that was something Boyd would far rather avoid, if possible for the rest of his life.

No, he would have to get moving. He lay for a minute, gathering his strength, listening out in the hall. The nurse came back, heading down toward the nurses' station. She would likely remain there for some time, he imagined, unless another patient called for her. He would just have to chance that.

Fortunately, he could see the plastic bag containing his clothes lying on a chair by the window. They had cut him out of his shirt, but the coat should still be in good enough shape to get him where he was going.

That he was not certain of where that was didn't worry him at the moment. Departing from the hospital was the current objective; everything else could wait until he was out.

Quietly, he eased himself out of the bed, collecting the bag and bringing it back so he could duck back under the covers if the nurse passed by again. He dressed with haste and efficiency, hampered only slightly by the fact that everything was still so sodden from the rain and being bundled hastily into a bag.

Soon enough he was dressed, and he poked his head cautiously out the door. The nurse was leaning back in her chair, a tabloid open in her hands, engrossed by the transgressions of celebrities.

From there, it was smooth sailing, and he stood in the hospital parking lot looking up at the night sky.

Now what? His belongings were back at the camp. He could go there tomorrow in the daylight, but he could not go there tonight. Despite everything that had happened since, the loss of his men, of the dream he had built there, was too fresh.

It came to him that he wasn't really the last Crowder. There was another one. The question was, would she open the door to his knock, or shoot him through the door? Unable to think of another place to go, Boyd decided he was willing to chance it.


	9. Sanctuary

_Thank you all for reading!_

* * *

Things were a bit of a mess at Ava's, which surprised Boyd until he remembered that he wasn't the only Crowder who had had a bad day yesterday. He could see the broken pieces of porch rail where Johnny must have fallen into the bushes, but the body was gone. Wearily, Boyd hoped someone had taken care of his cousin's body the way it should have been taken care of, but he was too heartsick, too drained to care beyond the passing thought.

Lights were on inside the house, though, and Ava's truck was parked out front. Seeing it, Boyd realized that part of him had hoped she wouldn't be home. He would have had nowhere else to go, true, but he would have been spared the indignity—and possibly the shot in the gut—that was to come once he climbed the steps and knocked on the door.

But he had come this far, and to go anywhere else was to strain what was left of his energies. He hadn't eaten in … well, he wasn't certain. And he thought he remembered his last meal coming back up as he mourned the lost in what had been his camp. The hospital hadn't fed him, and the medication they'd given him was wearing off, if the returning throb in his shoulder was any indication. He was going to have to stop making a habit of getting shot, he thought. Then he amended the thought to maybe he would have to stop allowing his path to cross with that of Raylan Givens. That did seem to be where the problem lay.

Still, here he was at Ava's, and he could only hope Raylan wouldn't be similarly drawn to her door. They had hardly appeared lover-like in the cabin, but it hadn't exactly been a good time for spooning.

He put one foot on the bottom step, then slowly, one at a time, navigated the rest of the steps.

By the time he reached the porch, the door was open, the shotgun was in her hands, and her foot was tapping the doorjamb impatiently. "What you want, Boyd?"

"I—I came for …" Words failed him. He wondered at that, as if from a long distance off. Then one came to him, and he muttered it even as he felt the porch recede from beneath his feet. "Sanctuary."

When he came to, he was lying on Ava's couch. His head hurt, his shoulder hurt—actually, both shoulders hurt. She had probably dragged him by the good arm to get him here.

Ava was sitting in a chair, leaning forward, watching him, her face set and her shotgun propped up next to her within easy reach. "What'd you mean, sanctuary?"

Boyd sat up, holding his head as it pounded, trying to think. "I meant …" He gave a weary sigh. "I have nowhere to go."

"Come on, now. Bo's got cabins and hidey-holes all over these mountains."

"I can't go there. His men— My men. He killed my men, Ava. He killed my dream."

She snorted. Ava had never been much for dreams; she traded mostly in realities. Always had.

"His men wouldn't follow me," Boyd said, bringing the conversation into the realm where she was most comfortable. "They think I'm … touched."

"They're not the only ones. You hit your head when you got shot?"

"No. I—" He looked at her, really looked at her. "I want a new start, Ava."

That caught her attention. "Don't we all." She narrowed her eyes. "You mean you aren't takin' up where your daddy left off?"

"No, ma'am. I don't want anything to do with that mess."

"So what do you want?"

"Could I—could I stay here? I'd be handy around the house, I could fix that porch—"

"Johnny didn't die," she interrupted him. "He was still livin' when they carted him off to the hospital."

"Was he, now? He always was tough," Boyd said. "And stubborn."

"He's a Crowder, ain't he?" Ava even smiled a little when she said it.

"Seems to come with the name."

"Maybe so. You'd pay rent?"

"Soon as I get a job."

"And you'd stay out of my hair? 'Cause I want a fresh start, too, and I don't want you gettin' in my way."

"Yes, ma'am." Boyd didn't mention the name of Raylan Givens, but it hung in the air. Ava's sour face seemed to indicate her fresh start was to be in more ways than one.

She frowned, looking him over. "You look like somethin' the cat dragged in. When'd you eat last?"

"I can't seem to recall."

"All right, come in the kitchen, we'll see what's left over. Don't think I'm gonna make a habit of cookin' for you."

"I won't," he promised, getting up off the couch. The room swam, but only a little, so he followed her unsteadily to the kitchen.

She pulled a butcher knife from the block and came up to him, jabbing the point against the middle button of his shirt. "You try anything, I'll kill you. You steal anything from me, get me in any kind of trouble, or even look at me wrong, you're out of here, and I'll call your marshal friend to haul your ass to jail. You got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Ava kept the knife where it was, her eyes on Boyd's, for another few breaths before deciding, grudgingly, to take him at his word, at least for now. "Sit down, I'll get you some ice tea."

"You got any bourbon?"

"In your condition? You'll drink ice tea and you'll like it."

Boyd couldn't help smiling. "Whatever you say." He leaned back in the chair, his head drooping onto his chest. It was warm here in the kitchen, the sounds of Ava fixing supper were familiar and comforting, and he felt like he could rest for the first time in a long while. He drifted off to sleep long before she set the glass of tea in front of him.


	10. Changed

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Ava lay in her bed, listening to the sounds in and around the house. Usually this was comforting, the creaks and chirps and hoots a familiar lullaby. But in the last few weeks there had been added a new set of sounds, the thumps and sighs of the boards as Boyd paced in his room, moving around, doing God-knew-what in there. Ava didn't even want to think about it—but she couldn't help it, lying here awake in the dark every night, a knife hidden beneath her mattress, waiting for him to go back to what he used to be.

By day, it was easy to believe in this transformation, to watch him pack his lunch and head off to the mines every morning, to impatiently put a plate of supper on the table in front of him every night, trying to hide from him how much of a pleasure it was to have someone other than herself to cook for again. He was meek and apologetic, thankful for every scrap of kindness … but he wasn't Boyd. She hadn't seen a flash of those white teeth in that wolfish smile of his since he'd shown up at her door. He hadn't launched into some long tirade full of big words and bigger ideas. He sat quietly, sometimes he read a book, but mostly he kept to himself in his room when he wasn't working.

So she had no business thinking about him what she was thinking, Ava told herself sternly. God knew she understood the need to make yourself over, to become something new. She needed to do it herself, to stop thinking about Bowman, about Raylan Givens, and see who she was without some man in her life … but in the midst of trying to believe in his change would come memories of all the times Boyd had gotten her alone and backed her up against the wall and tried to make time with her, even if she was his brother's wife. All the racist rants, all the religious nonsense, all the brandishing of guns with that same smile, like it was nothing to hold a weapon on a woman. How was it possible a man could change that much? It had to be an act, she would think every night, rigid under the blankets, hand sticking out from under them near where the knife lay, holding her breath every time he moved.

And then she would wake up, and there he would be at the breakfast table, coffee already made, hers poured for her in a fresh cup, all picture-perfect polite, looking still like a beaten dog, and she would be mad at herself and she would treat him better to make up for her night-time distrust.

"Don't you go blowin' yourself up today," she'd say, hoping to make him smile, thinking that would make him seem more like himself. Thinking it would tell her whether he was really changed, that she would see in his smile whether he was still the wolf he used to be.

"I'll surely try not to, ma'am," he would say, ducking his head and refusing to meet her eyes, and she wouldn't know what to think in the daylight any more than she had during the night.

During the day, when he was gone to work, it wasn't so bad. Ava had her chores, her gardening, and she was trying to figure out what kind of a job she could get. By the time Boyd came home, she'd have almost forgotten about him. But then she'd look at him again, filthy from the mines, she'd listen to him going upstairs and hear the water running down the drains, carrying all that coal dust through the pipes and out of the house, and wonder all over again.


	11. Miner

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Boyd squinted in the sun as the cart rolled out of the mine, lifting his hands toward the light as much in praise at having once more conquered the day's work and emerged still breathing as a block for the light on his sensitive eyes.

He got to his feet, his vision slowly adjusting. In the usual rush of men around the entrance of the mine, he saw one with a quality of stillness that immediately had the hackles rising on the back of his neck. It had only been a matter of time, he knew, until Raylan Givens found him. Not that he had been trying to hide. His name was on the employment roster; a man of Raylan's excellent instincts would have had little trouble determining where a Crowder would go if drugs and prison were not part of the package. Besides, they had worked the mines together, he and Raylan, once when they were young and fresh and unspoiled.

"Step out of the hole to find Raylan Givens waitin' for me," he said. "For a second I thought I was nineteen again." He walked past Raylan to put his gear away in his locker.

Behind him came Raylan's slow drawl. "Yeah, I was just thinkin', last time I was down a dog-hole mine was Myrtle Creek. You and me, runnin' for our lives." He laughed, leaning up against the chain link with his hands in his pockets.

You had to hand it to Raylan, he looked at home pretty much anywhere he was. Boyd had to wonder if he'd looked as much at home in Miami, or if there was something about being in Kentucky that eased his soul.

"I tell ya," Raylan continued, "I'm not afraid o' heights, snakes, or red-headed women, but … I am afraid o' that." He pointed toward the mine.

There was an implied compliment there, that Boyd had gone back to work Raylan could not have done any longer. "Yeah, well, not a lot of legal employment in Harlan County. Least, not for a man of my skill set." He approached Raylan more closely, his hands on the metal links of the fence between them. "Besides, wasn't it you who said I liked to get money and blow shit up?"

"Buy you a drink?" Raylan asked.

Boyd laughed. "Well, when a Deputy United States Marshal offers to buy you a drink, in a dry county, a cautious man might turn him down."

"Well, you could always claim entrapment, but I take your point. What if I said 'let's drive to a puddle, and I'll buy you a drink'," Raylan suggested.

It was odd to Boyd to be walking along next to his old friend just like … old friends. Of course, now they were on the same side of the law, so there was nothing to keep them from being plain and simple old friends. Except that Raylan wanted something, because there was always something up Raylan's sleeve.

"Well, I'd say Cumberland's the closest," Boyd said, trying to sort through the angles and figure out what he had that Raylan Givens wanted.

"Cumberland it is," Raylan said. He had that look in his eye that said he was trying to work his way around Boyd somehow, and Boyd found, somewhat to his surprise, that he relished the attempt. In the car on the way over, Raylan was not-so-subtly pumping Boyd for information. "So … nothing else to do with your time but go down the hole, that it?"

"That's about the size of it, Raylan," Boyd said cheerfully.

"Couldn't have gone to peddlin' brushes?"

"Why, I never thought of that. There much of a market for brushes these days?"

"Some, I imagine, for an enterprising young salesman."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

Raylan glanced at him, one eyebrow up. "I've never heard you refer to talking as work before."

"Sometimes, Raylan, a man's got to stay quiet and let the rumble of the dynamite do his talkin' for him."

"Not so long ago, that might have sounded like a threat."

"Only to you."

Raylan was silent for a moment, navigating the car around a curve. "Maybe so."

They reached the bar and ordered drinks, the liquid refreshing and revitalizing as it slid down Boyd's throat. "You want to tell me what this is all about now, Raylan?"

"Thought you might want to know what happened to the girl."

"I take it she didn't die, since your hat has remained white. You are still the good guy who saves the day, after all."

Raylan ignored the sally. "She did not die. And my old boss in Miami made a deal. We shouldn't be seeing her or any of her compatriots up here again."

"Well, isn't that a relief." Boyd finished his drink, thumping the glass back on the bar and calling for another.

"Just so we're clear," Raylan said, "genie don't go back in the bottle twice. Anything happens to the niece, Geo goes scorched earth—"

Boyd hadn't given any of that a moment's thought in quite some time. "That what you wanted?" he asked. "Make sure I wasn't gonna throw any gasoline on the Cuban fire?"

"Life don't hand out too many second chances, Boyd. I just hope you take advantage o' yours."

"Geo and his niece got nothin' to fear from me 'n' my family, 'cause my outlaw ways are behind me."

"Just you sayin' that scares the shit outta me," Raylan snapped before answering his insistently beeping phone. "Hold on a second."

"God's honest truth," Boyd murmured into his glass.

"The more you say it, the less I believe it."

Boyd turned to look at his friend, admiring how Raylan always wanted to believe that he was using his capabilities to the utmost. But those days were gone. He was a Kentucky coal miner now, the way he had always been intended to be. "Believe it or not, Raylan, all I want is to do my job and to be left alone. I hope that's not too much to ask."

"Okay." Raylan proceeded to take the call, from someone named Art, who turned out to be his boss.

Raylan tossed some money on the bar and reached up to adjust his hat.

"I'm surprised he hasn't transferred you, all the trouble you've drawn," Boyd remarked to his friend.

Raylan paused with his hat still in his hand, looking at Boyd with surprise and a little hint of hurt, before settling it back on his head. "Oh, you think I draw it?"

"Oh, you think you don't," Boyd responded, not making it a question. Raylan saw himself as the good guy, all right, but he was the good guy from a time when the lines were a lot more blurry than they were popularly believed to be today.

They looked at each other, Raylan clearly wanting to argue, but whatever his next stop was, it seemed pressing. "I gotta go. We're gonna continue this conversation another time."

As his friend pushed the door open, Boyd said clearly after him, "There's nothin' to continue because you'll never believe me."

Raylan had no response to that, and Boyd was left, as he had requested, alone. He called for another drink to celebrate.


	12. Memory

_Thank you for reading! No update next week, but I'll be back in the new year. Celebrate safely!_

* * *

Ava could hear the thumping and scuffling as Boyd came up the stairs, his footsteps unsteady, his hands bumping against the walls to keep from falling, and she tensed. How many times had she heard that same pattern of sounds when Bowman came home drunk and bent on trouble? Too often. She hated hearing them again, and cursed herself for letting Boyd think of this as his home.

As his footsteps neared her door, she reached for the knife she kept under the mattress, but he didn't stop. Didn't even pause. Instead he made his way to the bathroom.

She lay there relieved, letting the memories of Bowman drain away. Boyd was nothing like Bowman—at least, not anymore. He was bruised, beaten, a shell of who he had once been. She thought of him almost as a child, unable to take care of himself. Why else would he have come to her, of all people? Thinking that, she threw the covers off and reached for her bathrobe before she could think better of it. She might hate herself in the morning for showing him kindness, letting him in any further than he already was, but he was a guest in her home, and, as such, her responsibility.

The bathroom door swung open and she could see his face in the mirror, nose bloodied, eyes weary. This was nothing like Bowman, who would come home from his drunken bar fights fired up, ablaze with his own manhood. Boyd seemed ashamed of whatever he had been doing, his eyes dropping almost as soon as they had met hers in the glass.

"How did that happen?" she asked him.

Boyd sighed, his eyes closing, as he turned away from the mirror. "Honestly, Ava, I don't have any idea." He stared at her as if somehow the answers to the questions that tormented him might come from her.

But she didn't have his answers. She'd never had them. She didn't even have her own. All she knew was that here was a wounded animal at her door, and she'd take care of him like she would have any wounded animal. She hooked her thumb toward the bedroom. "Go take a seat. Go on."

He hesitated, then moved unsteadily past her. Ava flinched a little as he went by, stepping back just in case he tried something, but he walked right past her, his eyes half-closed, feeling for the doorknob to hold himself steady. He sank onto a bench at the foot of the bed while Ava rummaged in the bathroom for supplies, carrying them to him.

She took his chin in her hand, looking his wound over. She had doctored many a worse injury than that when Bowman had come home, and with a far less compliant patient. But … not anymore. She wasn't Boyd's wife, or his mother, or his sister. He didn't have to be her problem. Not this way. "Take this." She put the bottle of alcohol and box of gauze pads into his hands. "Go on. Clean yourself up. We'll pretend like this never happened."

Boyd looked up at her, his damaged face set and saddened, as if he was ready to weep. He seemed so lost that her heart was touched, and she fought against the pity that surged through her. It didn't do to pity a Crowder, she reminded herself. It was only playing with fire. And she couldn't have him coming home like this again. Too many bad memories lay in the smell of the booze and blood mingling on him.

"It happens again, though, and I will put you back in whatever gutter you just pulled yourself out of."

To Boyd's credit, he didn't bother to argue or justify himself. He just nodded, as if he was too tired to do more, and Ava left him there, marching straight out of the bedroom. She closed the door of her own room behind her and leaned against it, holding it closed with the weight of her body, tears seeping out from under her closed eyelids as she stood there locked helplessly in the memory of other nights.


	13. Dewey

_Thank you for reading! Happy New Year!_

* * *

Boyd sat hunched over his glass, savoring every sip. It was the only real pleasure he allowed himself, this quiet drink at the end of his shift, and so he was discomposed when a familiar voice disrupted his solitude, shouting for bourbon.

Dewey Crowe took the seat next to Boyd's, doing a double-take when he recognized his drinking companion. "Surprised to see you in here. Thought you'd given up these poisons."

"Well, I had. But many things have changed since last we spoke." Boyd smiled at the glass, feeling the burn of the liquor at the back of his throat.

"You mean, when you pointed your gun at me."

As if he was sitting inside someone else's head, Boyd noticed with some interest that talking about his men, and their death, was no longer painful. It was in the past, and had no connection with his current reality. "Well, the irony in that, is that without me pointin' my gun at you, you wouldn't be alive today."

When the bartender came for the payment, Dewey spread a handful of change on the bar, poking around at it until he had selected enough. Clearly Dewey had not stumbled upon a profitable line of work. Not a surprise, given his lack of intellect. Even less of a surprise, he next claimed to "have something lined up". How Boyd remembered those days, always scheming on the next plan, always scrambling to line up the next deal. He was well shut of that life now, he thought, looking at the glass of whiskey purchased with honest-earned coin. Well shut of it.

"Whatever puts a smile on your face, Dewey Crowe," he murmured, taking a careful sip.

Dewey looked up at him. "You know, Boyd, for a guy who's supposedly changed, you sound an awful lot like you always did." And then he was gone, leaving Boyd to consider that. He was who he was, he supposed. Hard to change one's spots entirely. But he was content with what he had now—a job, a drink, a bed to fall into in a safe place.

It was harder to remember his blessings the next day, as he emerged from the hole, blinking in the sun and filthy from the night's work, some young buck trying to make his points by harassing the famous Boyd Crowder leaning over his shoulder. Boyd ignored him, as he had ignored others who had tried to get a rise out of him. He was no longer the man they thought he was—he had no need to give them the satisfaction of his anger.

The young buck was chased off by another man, slightly older but still lacking the weight of years that seemed to pull heavily on Boyd these days. This one was star-struck, and his hero worship was harder to shake off, in part because Boyd had little respect for someone who would think of him as some variety of hero.

He managed at last to disentangle himself from both of them, stopping for his careful drink before heading home to Ava's.

Something was new, though. Maybe it was the weather, a clear, sunny day, maybe it was something in him beginning to wake up. Whatever it was, he found himself stopping to rest on the porch, enjoying the sunshine, rather than dragging himself straight to bed.

And regretted it shortly thereafter, as a car driven by a mighty agitated Dewey Crowe pulled up. Boyd got up from the loveseat on the porch, leaning against the upright.

"Goddamn it, don't play with me," Dewey spat after Boyd's friendly, if sarcastic, greeting. "I know it was you."

"What was me?"

Dewey was hopping mad, not making even as much sense as usual, but the gist of his upset seemed to be that he thought Boyd had convinced some of their old running buddies to get in the middle of whatever Dewey had been so pleased to have lined up. For a moment, Boyd almost wished he had.

Then Ava came out, the screen door banging shut behind her, drawn by Dewey's voice, and Boyd was glad he was still playing it straight, still deserving of her trust.

She glared at Dewey, glared at Boyd, and said to Boyd, "You've got two minutes to get him out of here," before going back in the house.

Boyd went down the steps, squaring up to Dewey, denying any involvement in the malfeasance that had him so upset.

"Why should I believe that?" Dewey demanded, and Boyd, for once in his life, had no answer. Dewey seemed struck more by the lack of response than he would have been by Boyd's natural glibness. "Well, all right. If you didn't have a hand in it, then I assume you won't mind if I make a play for it myself."

"What are you thinkin'?" Boyd asked, the question tripping so naturally off his tongue. He had been good at this kind of thing once. He thought ahead, anticipating Dewey's ham-handed plan, trying to talk him out of it.

"Spoken like a man protecting his associates," Dewey snapped, turning back to his car.

Boyd followed him. "Spoken like a man who doesn't want to see you get killed." Leaning over Dewey, he tried to explain what would happen if Dewey went after the stolen pills, but Dewey was having none of it. He drove off, determined to get in trouble, and Boyd looked after him, trying to determine if he was responsible if he didn't try to stop the disaster that was about to occur.

Then he looked up and saw Ava in the doorway, watched her arms cross over her chest as she weighed him in the balance and found him wanting, and he cursed the Dewey Crowes of this world for not letting him ease into a plain and simple retirement the way he had wanted to. How could a man truly change if his past wouldn't leave him alone?


	14. Foolishness

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Ava watched Boyd drive off, disgusted with him, disgusted with herself. Of course Boyd was back to his old tricks, hanging around with Dewey Crowe, getting involved in whatever mess Dewey was bound to screw up this time. The respectful man who went to work and came home, quietly doing a real job, had never been going to last. She had been a fool to believe he would. Now she'd have to kick him out sooner or later. Probably sooner, before he got in too deep into whatever this was, and it was already too late because deep down she knew she didn't want to have to kick him out.

It was comforting to have him in the house, to know there was someone there if she needed a hand, to have someone to talk to and someone to cook for, even if that someone was her former husband's brother.

What an idiot she'd been to let him in in the first place, she thought, going to the refrigerator for a cool drink. She didn't get it, though, because the next knock at her door was that of another man she'd been an idiot to let in in the first place.

Raylan Givens. At least he had the grace to look like he knew he wasn't welcome on her porch. But he was on her porch anyway, asking for a minute of her time. Not because of her, no. Because of Boyd. Because Boyd and Raylan were more of a pair than she and Raylan had ever been.

She left the screen door firmly shut between them. "What can I do for you, Raylan?"

He was upfront about it, that he was here for Boyd. She pointed out the absence of Boyd's truck, and Raylan pretended he didn't know damn well Boyd wasn't here. She'd had about enough of charming men who smiled at you while they tried to get what they wanted out of you.

Ava decided she wanted more than this from Raylan. She pushed the screen door open and stepped out, practically in his arms when he didn't step back. "Tell the truth. You come to my door to talk to Boyd, or to ask me why he's livin' in my house?"

Raylan still didn't move, didn't take his eyes off her. She wished she thought he cared. "I'm here on business, Ava," he said softly.

"Raylan, Bowman didn't leave me with much more than shitty memories and a balloon payment on a mortgage that I can't afford. Now, I work at the beauty parlor in Corkum, but it ain't hardly enough." She tugged on his tie, enjoying being this close to him even though she couldn't have him. Truth to tell, enjoying the response she could feel in his body, too, knowing he wanted her but wouldn't let himself have her. That wasn't hardly enough, either, but it was better than nothing. "Boyd, he helps out. I know it's odd," she admitted. Then she added the even odder part. "But do you realize he's the only kin I have left?" Other than Jeremiah, but Lord only knew where her uncle'd got himself off to these days.

"Sounds … mutually beneficial," Raylan agreed. "Has he left for work?"

"We have an arrangement!" Ava insisted, not wanting to talk about Boyd's current whereabouts. She wanted Raylan's eyes on her, his attention on her, for reasons having as much to do with Boyd's safety from the law as her own needs. The man was living in her house, he was her responsibility. She'd cover for him until she had to kick him out, as best she could. She took her cigarettes and walked across the sun-warmed boards of the porch. "No liquor in the house—I was drinkin' way too much, maybe you noticed," she added, giving Raylan an arch glance. He had liked her liquored up. He'd liked being liquored up.

But he wasn't paying her any mind, instead peering through the screen door into the house.

"And, um, no trouble with the law," Ava continued. "He does anything I find the least bit offensive, I throw him out. It's really pretty simple." She put the cigarette in her mouth and lit it.

"Ava. While I'm here. I'm lookin' into the possibility that he had a hand in hijacking an oxy bus. Shootin' a guard."

Oxy. Well, didn't that just take the case. Just the kind of idiocy Dewey Crowe would be messing around with—just the kind of thing Boyd had sworn he was over and done with.

"There are these pill mills in Florida," Raylan went on, "don't computerize records. Dixie Mafia's been hirin' busloads of folks to …"

"I know what an oxy bus is, I read the papers," Ava broke in, unimpressed by how his accent went back to what it had been growing up anytime he wanted to seem like home folks again. "You think Boyd hijacked one?"

"Wouldn't be standin' here otherwise."

Boyd Crowder was gonna get an earful next time Ava saw him, that was for sure. She sank down on the loveseat. "Guess that explains Dewey bein' here."

"Dewey Crowe? He was here."

"Mm-hm. He and Boyd were arguin' about somethin'. I didn't pay much attention to what. Guess maybe I should have." She hadn't wanted to, and that was her own damned foolishness again. When was she ever going to learn?

Raylan knew he'd gotten under her skin. He took a seat next to her, just close enough. "Ava."

"Mmhm."

"Anything you could tell me, would be helpful."

She debated. But if Boyd was back at his old ways, the best thing she could do for herself was to set Raylan on his trail. With any luck, they'd take care of each other and she'd be well rid of both of them. "Boyd already left for his night shift. But he doesn't go straight to the mine. He stops at Audrey's first. I'm sure you know where that is. You probably lost your virginity there." Audrey's was an institution, after all, although Ava would have bet good money that Boyd wasn't taking advantage of the more colorful parts of the bar. Just the whiskey, just the fortification to get him through the shift. Going down the mine was a shitty job. Ava was impressed by the men who did it, and saddened for them, too. It didn't really surprise her if Boyd was looking elsewhere. He had too much gumption to waste his life in a hole in the ground.

She got up, signaling to Raylan that he'd had all he was going to get from her. "Good luck."


	15. Shades

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

When Boyd looked up from his single glass of carefully savored whiskey and saw Raylan Givens walking toward him, it occurred to him that perhaps he ought to find himself a new watering hole. This one was beginning to feel a mite crowded by the ghosts of his former selves, and the baggage said spirits were dragging along with them.

Raylan had his "aw, shucks" smirk on him. It must be habitual, or else he wouldn't have bothered wearing it in Boyd's presence. Boyd had known Raylan too long to let himself be fooled by that down-home manner.

"Back in Audrey's," Raylan marveled as he took the empty seat. There was some genuine wonder there—Audrey's was a magic land of transformation for most young men of their generation—but there was also an attempt to paint himself as Boyd's equal, by means of their shared past, and Boyd wanted no part of it.

He closed his eyes and held the cool glass against his forehead as Raylan leaned over toward him and asked, "Is it just me, or has the presence of a US marshal made these folks uneasy?"

Another time, Boyd would have enjoyed a verbal fencing match with his old friend, would have taken pleasure in matching wits and witticisms. But today he had a headache, and he did not look forward to going down the hole, and he just wanted to be left alone to have his drink in peace. "Maybe it's just your hat," he suggested, an edge in his voice. As Raylan took the hat off, pretending to take Boyd's comment seriously, Boyd continued, "I don't suppose your bein' here is a … coincidence."

"Hey, where's Dewey?" Raylan asked, as if it had just occurred to him. "Is he here?" He looked all around, every movement just a bit too broad for Boyd's liking.

"Why would I know where Dewey is?" Boyd kept his voice even and his face clear, refusing to play along with Raylan's theatrics.

"Well, I heard you guys had been hanging out again."

"Ava told you that." It was foolish, but Boyd felt stung by the betrayal. It wasn't one, of course—Ava had the right to tell Raylan whatever she wanted, and surely the presence of Dewey Crowe at her house would have angered her enough to tell Raylan all sorts of things, actual and conjectured—but Boyd felt the pain of it anyway.

"Mm," Raylan confirmed. "I gotta admit, took me by surprise, you and her shackin' up."

"It's not what you think."

"She told me if you looked at her funny, she'd kick you out."

"Well, maybe it is what you think." Tired of the game, he added, "Your reason for bein' here would be?"

"Is to ask you if, um, you had anything to do with that oxy bus gettin' jacked on Glen Holler Road?"

Boyd chuckled, putting the glass down. If only he was the mastermind everyone seemed to think he was. He had to admit, it sounded a lot nicer than being just another man in a hole, steadily blackening in both face and lung from the coal. "Now, why, in the context of our last conversation, would you come here and ask me that? I thought I made myself fairly clear about my intentions."

"Simple question. Yes or no."

"True; but the real question is whether or not you would believe my answer."

"Well … give it a shot. We'll see."

Boyd couldn't help laughing. All the things they had seen coming up, the two of them, and somehow Raylan had still boiled the world down to this black and white affair where people were either good or bad, and they stayed the way they started. He wondered how Raylan squared himself in that picture, Raylan who was more shades of gray than anyone Boyd had ever known … except, possibly, himself. He was still grinning as he turned to his old friend and gave him the God's honest truth, certain that Raylan wouldn't believe a word. "No, Raylan, I had nothing to do with that bus bein' robbed."

"Okay." And in Raylan's mind, it was clear, that was that. Boyd had answered, Raylan had pretended to take the answer at face value. Picking up his hat, Raylan got to his feet, but not without a parting shot, as he leaned over Boyd's table, and, all innocence, asked, "I don't suppose you know who did?"

"If I did know, would I be obligated to share it with you?"

"Well, that's up to you. How much blood do you want on your hands? How much did you enjoy prison?"

With which parting shot, Raylan was on his way, leaving Boyd steaming and saddened and at a loss to determine exactly who he was and who he wanted to be.

He was still sitting there, contemplating the emptiness of life and the darkness of the mine when Dewey Crowe made his appearance, flush with cash and euphoric at his success. Naturally, Dewey couldn't just swagger off to a trailer with Ellen May and a friend. No, of course, he had to share his good news with Boyd, completely oblivious to how little Boyd cared to be involved.

Boyd ignored the shit-eating grin as long as he could, until Dewey demanded, "Don't you want to hear what happened?"

"Not particularly."

Ignoring Boyd's lack of enthusiasm, Dewey … well, he crowed, no two ways about it. "It was a thing of beauty! They never even saw it comin'. And you're never gonna believe who I told 'em I was. Oh … Raylan Givens."

Dewey dissolved into giggles at his own cleverness, while Boyd winced inwardly at the stupidity of this man. How Dewey was still drawing breath as a free man was mystifying.

Boyd refused the bourbon Dewey offered him, putting his money down and rising from the table. "I gotta go to work."

"What's got you so jammed up?" Dewey demanded.

"Know what, Dewey? If you had any smarts in that head of yours, you would get in your car right now and start drivin'. And you wouldn't stop until you saw the Everglades."

"You don't know what the hell you're talkin' about."

"I know that if you stay here, you're not long for this earth, son."

Dewey was taken aback … but only for a moment. Then his bravado reasserted himself, and he stood up, facing Boyd down. "You know what I think? I think that you're just mad because I had the stones to do this, and you didn't."

"You can think what you want. Just do it from your car."

"I will leave here when I'm good and ready and not you or no one else gonna tell me any different."

Boyd looked steadily at Dewey, wishing he could impress on him the deadly seriousness of what he had gotten himself into. But he couldn't. Dewey wouldn't accept it from him, or from anyone. "You chose your path," he said at last. "Good luck to you, son."

As he left the bar, he took out his phone, dialing the number he knew by heart—no need for Raylan to keep giving out his card. When Raylan answered, Boyd asked him the question that was weighing so heavily on his mind these past few days. "I was wonderin' if, back when we were diggin' coal together, that you had an inkling of the man that I might someday become."

"You mean, just forty and still single?"

"Well, I never thought that I would make a phone call like this, Raylan." This was the man he had chosen to be, Boyd told himself. Straight, honest, working man. That was who he wanted to be. Someone Ava could trust. Someone no one had to die for.

"If it's about Dewey, don't worry about it. I already know."

"Well, he's at Audrey's, handin' out oxycontin like he's a pharmaceutical rep."

"That, I didn't know … although I should've guessed. You gonna stay there and wait for me?"

"No, Raylan, I have to go to work. I'll have to let you handle your affairs on your own."

"Generous of you."

Boyd hung up the call and closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the window of the truck. Was this really the man he chose to be, someone who called the authorities, who called Raylan Givens? He didn't know anymore. He only knew that it had been a long time since he dreaded the darkness of the mine, trapped with his thoughts, the way he dreaded it tonight.


	16. Men

Ava hadn't meant to wait up in case Boyd came back, exactly, but she found it hard to sleep not knowing what he was up to. Had he gone to work? Was he down the mine like he should be? Or was he off with Dewey Crowe, getting involved in God only knew what? She hoped it was the first one, but was so afraid to trust him. Trusting the Crowder men had never given her anything but trouble. Regardless, it was peaceful sitting out here in the porch in the dark.

It was only a little bit of a surprise when Raylan Givens pulled up in front of the house, in his shiny black marshal's car. Come to tell her about Boyd, to crow about how far down the path of no return Boyd had gone, she was sure.

She didn't move as he got out of his car. "Twice in one day—I am a lucky girl."

He chuckled, looking around him as he came up onto the porch.

"Assuming you're still looking for Boyd?" She hoped he'd found him by now. Not having found him meant … meant she'd have to kick Boyd out, and she found herself surprisingly reluctant to do so.

"No, I found him."

Well, that couldn't be good. "He's gone to jail?"

"I assume he's down the mine, workin' his shift, as per usual."

Ava was relieved, although she tried to hide it. She didn't need Raylan getting any ideas. "So he didn't rob that bus after all, huh?"

"Guess not."

"You come here just to tell me that?"

"Well, considering your arrangement, I wouldn't want you to throw him out 'cause of something I said."

"Very thoughtful of you." There was more coming, though, and it came almost before she got her words out.

"I want you to throw him out 'cause he's Boyd Crowder."

Ava nodded, having expected as much. "Really."

"Mmhm. I understand, Ava, he says he wants to change, and I might buy that he wants to."

"But you don't think he will."

"Believin' that kind of shit could get me killed, and I think the same goes for you."

He hadn't seen the Boyd she'd seen, Ava told herself, conveniently forgetting she'd had many of the same thoughts over and over again since Boyd had come to stay with her. She stayed quiet, not giving Raylan the satisfaction of a response.

"You tryin' to get back at me? Because if that's the case, there's other ways to do it than movin' Boyd in."

She couldn't help laughing. Men. They were all the same, always thinkin' they were the best thing that'd ever happened to a woman. "Whoa," she said, getting up. "This isn't about you. And it is mighty arrogant of you to think otherwise." What it had been at the beginning, what she had half-hoped Raylan would do when he found out Boyd was living with her, was none of Raylan's business anyway.

"Well, then, why? Why invite even the possibility of the trouble he brings into your home?"

"I told you."

"Oh, that's right. You need to pay your rent, and he's your kin. Well, you can call me arrogant if you want, but I don't buy that shit."

He was infuriating. She had forgotten how infuriating. And she had forgotten how much more infuriating he was when he was right. "Then why?"

"I don't know, Ava."

"No, you tell me, o wise one, why? Who cheated on me with his ex, who's married."

She'd hit a nerve that time, she could see it in the sudden tensing of his jaw. "Ava."

"Would you like to come inside and talk about this?"

He smiled, slow, getting the drift of what she was suggesting, tempted, at least a little bit, which she was glad to see. Not that she wanted him anymore, not really, but it was always better to know they still wanted you. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said at last.

"Then go. You are choosin' not to be a part of my life, so you don't get a say in how I live it. And Boyd, he's stayin' here." Although she'd be giving him a talking-to he wouldn't soon forget. But she was damned if Raylan Givens was going to have his pie and eat his cake, too.

He looked at her, deciding whether it was worth continuing to argue, and decided against it. "Okay."

"Okay." As he went down the steps to his car, she called after him, "And I'd appreciate the next time a bus gets robbed in Harlan, that you wouldn't come knockin' on this door."

Raylan grinned, as if that was a good joke, which to him it probably was, and got into his car. Ava went in the house and let the screen door slam behind her, angry at him and at Boyd and at Bowman and men in general for not letting a woman enjoy a set-out on the porch in peace and quiet.


	17. Anger

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Another shift gone by. Another night down the hole, another morning coming out into the sunshine again. This was his life; Crowder men had been living it for generations … at least, until they'd gotten smart and realized there were other ways to live. But how smart was it to be a parasite, to live off other men's ruin, to constantly be making shaky deals and waiting for them to fall through?

Those were the questions he looked for in the amber liquid as he raised his glass up in front of his face. That the answers didn't lurk in those smooth, smoky depths didn't much bother him, because at least the alcohol quieted the questions for a time, long enough so he could sleep, anyway.

But sleep would be a long time coming, he could tell, when the door banged open and the young man from the mine walked in, followed by two of his compatriots. Yes, it was for certain that Boyd was going to need to find somewhere else to drink, somewhere that he might be left alone for a change.

"What does a man have to do to get a quiet drink in these parts?" he murmured to himself, listening to the clump of the other fellow's boots on the wooden floor.

"Well, what do you know. Boyd Crowder." The kid took the seat next to him without so much as a by-your-leave. "Fancy that."

"I'm sorry … What's your name?"

"Kyle."

"I thought I stated it rather politely the other day: I prefer to drink alone." He glanced down at the glass the waitress had just left on the bar.

"Well, you did. You did. And I—I respect that." The kid seemed nervous. Boyd was glad he seemed nervous, but would have been more glad had he taken himself off rather than settled more firmly into the chair. "I do. But, uh—Well, truth is, I, I came here to offer you somethin'."

Boyd held still, not wanting to hear the offer. But he wanted to hear it, too. It was flattering to be chased down, to be respected for his skills at something beyond blowing shit up at the bottom of a hole.

"I should've come clean, at the mine," Kyle went on. "I know who y'are, Boyd Crowder. And I'm a great admirer of all that you've done. I mean, Crowder's Commandos, shit, brother." He laughed. "Well, you're a local legend."

A lesser man might have eaten all this up, Boyd thought, feeling the temptation to glow a little in the praise even as he pushed it away as belonging to a man from another life.

"Poppin' off them Jews like you was in a video game."

Any temptation to glow was officially gone. Boyd put the glass down. "I never killed any Jews, Kyle. In fact, I don't think I've ever met a Jew in my life."

"All I'm sayin' is that I understand who you are. You have a vision, and I have a vision. You and me, we's the same."

Boyd leaned back and took the money out of his jacket to pay for his drink. That last quarter inch lay, smooth and cool, in the bottom of the glass, but he wanted out of this conversation before he got angry, and he could feel the anger beginning to churn inside him. Couldn't this boy read the signals and see that Boyd was not that man any longer?

He leaned over, letting a carefully chosen amount of that rising anger show. "You don't know anything about me. Or why I have done the things that I have done in my life."

"Well, now, hold on," Kyle said, getting to his feet. "Ain't no reason to get riled up."

Behind Kyle, Boyd could see the other two miners also on their feet. Part of him was weary, just wanting to go home and go to bed, but part of him … well, it had been a long time since he'd been in a fight, and he felt like he just might have some things to work out that fisticuffs might resolve quite nicely.

"I killed people, too," Kyle told him as they stood there facing off against one another. "And I lost friends like you did out in the woods."

The image of his men hanging blinded Boyd for a moment. He didn't want to remember that day.

"But some sacrifices are necessary, sometimes." Kyle had moved closer, his eyes lit with an unholy passion. "People are disposable." He nodded, as though Boyd had agreed, when in fact Boyd was merely trying to hold on to his temper long enough not to beat the shit out of him. "Men like you and me, we understand that."

How low must Boyd have been once that this boy, this arrogant boy who thought he knew things, saw some kinship between them? It was sickening. He pushed past him and headed for the door, wanting nothing more than to leave this whole sorry mess behind him as he had left behind the man he used to be.

But it was not to be, as Kyle came chasing after him. "Come on, there ain't no need to run off. Wait a second, will ya? I want to talk to you about somethin'."

Boyd reached his truck, pulling open the driver's side door. He climbed inside, slamming the door behind him and reaching to turn the key even as Kyle's face appeared in the window, still demanding that Boyd wait a second.

He had always been a patient man, but even his patience wore thin eventually. He stared out the windshield, holding on to his temper the way he held the steering wheel. And then Kyle made the mistake of reaching into the window for the key, trying to force Boyd to stop and listen to what he had to say.

It was too much. The man he was and the man he used to be came together as one as he wrapped an arm around Kyle's neck, holding him half in and half out the window, and hit the gas, the truck reversing out of its spot.

Even as Boyd hit the brakes and changed gears, Kyle's friends were running down the stairs, looking alarmed for the first time. Apparently it had never occurred to them that Boyd would not take kindly to being pestered.

It was occurring to Kyle now, though, as Boyd slammed the truck into drive and took off down the road, still holding Kyle's head firmly so that he had no choice but to shuffle his feet along with the truck's momentum, his friends running after the truck impotently.

"Let's have a little conference time, one-on-one, me and you, what do you say?"

Kyle's easy charm, which must have won him entry into any number of foolish young ladies' beds, had deserted him as he tried to keep up with the truck and plead with Boyd and adjust to his new reality all at once.

"You want to talk about my past, killed people, blew shit up, that what you want to talk about? Or you want to talk about God? And faith! Hope! Demolition, you want to talk about that?"

"Jesus Christ!" Kyle shrieked.

"Jesus Christ? We can talk about him, Kyle. You want to meet Him? Huh? You want to meet your Maker, Kyle, because I'll be right behind you. How 'bout we do this on three. One. Two." He screamed "Three!" in Kyle's ear just as Kyle shouted, "Stop the car!"

And then he let go, giving Kyle's head a shove, watching in the side mirror as Kyle bounced across the road and into the dirt along the side. Boyd screamed and screamed, letting out all the pain and the anguish, the built-up tension of the months trying to be so careful, trying to be the man he wanted to be, beating the steering wheel as he let it all out.

Then he paused in the middle of the road, watching the still figure lying under the yellow caution sign, waiting to see if he was still the new Boyd Crowder or if he had to go back to being the old one. He hadn't wanted to let this boy get under his skin, to make the choice to change what he was without having made the choice, by letting his anger get the best of him, and he would hate to have to be the old Boyd Crowder just because he'd killed a man who refused to take a polite no for an answer. If he ever was that Boyd again, he wanted it to be his own choice, to be deliberate.

At last the figure moved, getting its elbows and knees under it, and Boyd knew that Kyle would live.

He drove off, frightened by his own anger even as he breathed a sigh of relief.


	18. Control

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Boyd was so tired that he nearly closed his eyes and leaned his head against the steering wheel to sleep rather than get out of the car. But movement on the porch alerted him before he could close his eyes, and he lifted his head to meet Ava's stone-faced gaze. He sighed, knowing he didn't have the energy for this conversation right now, and knowing as surely that she wouldn't be put off. A distant part of his mind wondered where he would go when she threw him out of the house. No doubt Raylan had been here, and his old friend had done his best to remove the fox from the henhouse he was no longer tending.

There was no help for it. He took the keys out of the ignition and climbed out of the car. "Good morning, Ava."

"Don't you 'good morning' me. Tell me what you've been up to. Why was Dewey Crowe comin' here lookin' for you?"

"Oh, Dewey." Boyd sighed. "He wanted to blame someone else for his own mistakes. That's all."

Ava appeared to accept that. "Raylan was here."

"I thought he might have been. He tell you about Dewey at Audrey's?"

"No, he left that part out. Mostly he told me I should kick you out because you were gonna turn on me sooner or later. Are you? Gonna turn on me?" There was a vulnerability in her eyes that Boyd wasn't certain he'd ever seen before, and it occurred to him, maybe Ava was lonely. Maybe she was as lost as he was, looking for a direction to turn her life in.

"No, ma'am." He spread out his hands, still marked with coal dust under the fingernails. "What you see is who I intend to be."

"For how long? How many times does Dewey Crowe, or your daddy's crew, or any of your old running buddies, have to come around here before you remember who you used to be?"

"Ava. I remember who I used to be." A wave of weariness came over him, dizziness and nausea as he remembered the still figure of Kyle lying by the side of the road, alive by the grace of God, not by the restraint of Boyd Crowder. He reached for the upright to hold himself up. "I don't have any desire to be that man again, that I can promise you."

She came toward him, holding on to the upright as well, looking him right in the face. "Why not?"

Boyd swallowed. He hadn't been able to put this into words for himself, and very much wished he could have had a good long rest and some distance from the events of this morning before he had to try to explain it to her. "That was … that was an angry man, Ava. Angry and hateful and filled with malice toward his fellow human beings, even though he hadn't met most of those he held responsible for what he thought of as his ills."

"Yeah. I remember."

"Well, then. Do you want to see that man back again?"

"No."

"Neither do I."

"So what do you do with all that anger? Does it just … go away?" She asked it as though she had some anger herself. No doubt she did, Boyd thought. All those years with Bowman, his father, himself, Raylan … Life, and men, had not been particularly kind to Ava so far.

He looked her in the eye, holding her gaze with his. "No, Ava, it doesn't. It's not easy to swallow it. Down the hole, outside, when I think of my father, when I'm alone, when I'm with other people … It's why I prefer to be left alone whenever I can. It's easier to control by myself, thinking of other things, thinking of nothing."

"The bourbon."

"It's not a problem, Ava. I have one drink at a time, mostly."

"I believe you."

He wasn't sure if she did, but saying as much was kind of her.

"You ever lose control of that anger?"

"Sometimes."

They were both leaning against the upright now, their faces very close together, their voices soft. "What do you do?"

"Take a deep breath and try to do better tomorrow."

Ava smiled. "It is tomorrow."

"Then I'll try to do better today."

She stepped back, then, breaking the moment of understanding between them. "I bet a good long sleep'll help with that."

"I hope so." He pushed himself off the upright. "Ava."

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

She looked at him, studying him, weighing his future. "You're welcome." Then she hurried down the steps toward her car, probably heading in to a shift at the beauty parlor, and Boyd, feeling the weight of the world lifting off his shoulders now that she had forgiven him for whatever Raylan had accused him of being, headed inside to lose himself in the blissful dark of sleep.


	19. Company

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Boyd shifted on the bed, propping the pillow up more comfortably behind him, opening the book again. It was a slow starter, or maybe it had just been too long since he had stretched his intellect.

At any rate, it was something of a relief, as well as a surprise, when a light tap came on the door.

"It's open!" When the door swung open, Ava leaning against the doorjamb, he assumed he knew what had brought her upstairs. "Music too loud?"

"Little bit."

Closing the book, Boyd sat up and reached out to turn the music off.

"Whatcha readin'?"

" _Of Human Bondage_."

He wasn't surprised when Ava made a face, shaking her head. "I don't know that."

Boyd got to his feet. She was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet in the doorway, appearing nervous, which made him nervous in turn. He glanced at the book, realizing he had closed it without marking his place. "I just started."

They stared at each other, Boyd trying to figure out what she wanted.

At last Ava looked around the room, remarking, "Little stuffy in here."

"I don't mind." It sounded like maybe she was working up to suggesting he find another place to live, and Boyd hoped to head her off by pretending he didn't notice.

"It's nicer out on the porch." Ava tilted her head that way in an obvious suggestion that he should join her, which surprised Boyd a little. Not least of which because it was actually fairly cool out, and Ava was wearing a little off-the-shoulder T-shirt not exactly meant for the weather. He stopped himself short of considering how good she looked in it. Those were not thoughts for the new Boyd, certainly not where Ava was concerned.

But, curious and still a bit apprehensive, he pulled on his coat and followed her downstairs as she seemed to expect him to do.

Despite the chill, it was refreshing to be out. It smelled like rain was coming in, a fresh, clean scent. Tucking his hands in his pockets, Boyd sank down on the loveseat, enjoying the view and the outdoors. It was good to be alive, after all. A person needed to stop and look around and give consideration to that fact every once in a while.

Ava, bundled up in her own coat, lit a cigarette, leaning against the upright.

Politely, Boyd waited for her to get around to whatever she had brought him down here to talk about, but as she smoked, looking out at the fields across the road, he started to wonder if maybe all she had wanted was the company.

That he had lived long enough to see Ava Crowder want his company, he marveled. "How is the work at the beauty salon going?" he asked at last, when it became clear she wasn't about to start a conversation.

Ava glanced at him in surprise. "Okay. Can't complain. Well, I could, but what would be the point?" She laughed a little, blowing smoke out into the cloudy day.

"I suppose. Business slow?"

"Yeah, a little." She sighed, shaking her head. "Wigs are popular again. Startin' to cut into business." She turned to look at him, smiling. "Although there was this one woman yesterday, she wanted me to add curls to hers. She brought it in on a foam head, put it up in my chair like it was a real person. Can you believe that?"

"That's somethin'."

"She didn't tip for shit, either," Ava groused. "I hate doin' wigs."

"You know, I always wondered what I'd look like with long hair."

Ava giggled. Out and out giggled, which a different Boyd would have found adorable. "That is a funny image, Boyd."

"I'm serious. Thought if I had long hair, I might be the lead singer in a rock band." He grinned, thinking back. Those had been good times, times filled with hope and possibility. Hope and possibility seemed to disappear as you got older, which might be why people were so obsessed with staying young forever. "I love music," he told her.

"Can you sing?"

"No. No, I can't sing. Not a lick." He had tried, though, tried mighty hard for a while there, until his daddy had cuffed him upside the head one day and told him to stop being such a damn fool. Bo had meant well, for sure, but Boyd thought a little more time being a damn fool probably wouldn't have hurt him any. He didn't want to think about Bo, though, so instead, he thought about his Granny Crowder, singing as she hung laundry on the line. "My grandmother, she could sing. She would sing out in the back yard, and I'd sit and listen to her. It calmed me."

Ava nodded, understanding. He wondered if she had any memories of family who calmed her when she was little. "Well, life is long," she said, and he appreciated her humoring his long-ago dreams.

"Yeah."

A truck was coming down the dirt road. Boyd tensed, hoping it would go on by. He didn't know about Ava, but anyone who might be coming to visit him was someone he would just as soon not see right now.

"You expecting company?" Ava asked, just as Boyd recognized the truck as belonging to Kyle. Damn.

"Ava, you best go inside." Whatever Kyle was about to do, she didn't need to be in the middle of, and whatever he might say, she didn't need to hear. If she knew what he had done to Kyle, she would have him pitched out the back door quicker than she could spit, Boyd thought, and he wouldn't blame her a bit.

"Friends o' yours?"

"Go on in and lock the door."

To his relief, she did as he asked, the door shutting behind her just as Kyle got out of the truck. Two of his buddies jumped out of the bed, following him up. Kyle was limping a bit, but otherwise seemed in good condition, which was mostly a relief to Boyd, although he regretted that clearly he had not made his point forcefully enough to dissuade the young man from showing up here.

"Stop right there," he said to them. "I'm afraid I owe you an apology. What I did to you was uncalled-for. It's just that I get confused, in my head, whenever I think about such painful things." He hadn't been that confused. He'd been angry, and he'd wanted to be left the hell alone, and he'd wanted for just a minute to be Boyd Crowder teaching this upstart a lesson. But Kyle didn't need to hear any of that, and Ava most certainly didn't. He'd have bet a month's pay she was standing behind the closed door with her shotgun, and he felt both better and worse for the thought.

To his surprise, Kyle laughed, glancing at his friends as if to say 'you believe this guy?' He came toward the porch. "It's all right, Boyd. I ain't here for that."

Frowning, Boyd stepped down off the porch, closing the distance. Now he was absolutely sure Ava didn't need to hear any of this. "What are you here for?"

"I told you, I have plans. I need someone like you to make them work. What you did just makes me more sure that you're the person I'm lookin' for."

"Because I half-killed you?" Boyd asked skeptically.

"Yes, sir. That's the kind of fire I need."

"Perhaps I have not yet made myself clear. I am not interested in helping you with your plans, and what occurred between us before was regrettable. I am not that man, and I would take it kindly if you would find someone else to assist you."

He looked at Kyle. Kyle looked at him. Neither of them spared a glance for Kyle's buddies. "You're sure?"

"I am completely sure."

"Well, then, I guess we got what we came for." Kyle shook his head. "It's too bad."

"I'm certain it is," Boyd agreed politely.

Kyle and his friends got back in the truck and drove away, leaving Boyd watching them with relief, and a certain amount of curiosity he refused to acknowledge.


	20. Promise

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

"Boyd Crowder."

Ava was waiting for him as he closed the front door behind him. The shotgun rested in the crook of her elbow. He knew from painful experience how good she was with it, and he kept a wary eye on the weapon as he took a cautious step in her direction.

"You want to tell me what in the hell that was all about?"

"Do you want me to go, Ava?"

"No!" The word had come out faster than she'd wanted it to, and Ava hurried to cover it. "What I want to know is what those men were here for, and why you're bringing trouble into my house when you promised you wouldn't."

Boyd winced at the reminder. He had promised that, and he had tried to live up to that promise, God knew he had. "They followed me."

"All the way home? Really."

"They stopped me at work, wanted the Crowder name and skills for something they have going." He held up a hand when she was about to ask for details. "I don't know what, I don't want to know. I didn't ask."

She frowned. "You didn't ask."

"No, I did not. I'm done with all that. I said I was, and I am. Despite what your friend Raylan might have said," he couldn't resist adding spitefully. He didn't object to Raylan looking out for Ava, not really, but the under-handed manner in which he'd done so, coming by when Boyd wasn't here, said it was at least as much about jealousy as it was about protectiveness—two attributes Raylan Givens had in spades.

"You leave Raylan out of this," Ava snapped. "This is about you and your trashy friends."

Boyd took another step toward her, mindful of the shotgun. If it had lifted the slightest bit he would have stepped back. But it didn't, and he stood in front of her, looking into her eyes. "I promise you, Ava, it was not my idea for them to come here, and I will do everything I can to keep them from returning."

"You do?"

"Yes."

For a moment, he thought she might say something more, but she stepped back. "All right, then. Long as that's true." She didn't want to admit to the relief she felt; she hadn't wanted to kick him out, and she hadn't wanted him to be up to his old tricks, either. It was entirely possible he was lying to her right now—he had always been good at that—but she had to trust him sometime, and this seemed like as good a time as any. She'd be keeping the shotgun handy, though, just in case those men, or Dewey Crowe, or anyone else she didn't want in her house, came around again.

"Thank you, Ava." There was something soft in his eyes, a relief that matched hers, and Ava was touched by it, reminded that he really didn't have anywhere else to go. She shouldn't care, she told herself, but she did, at that. Like she would have cared about a stray dog. That was it.

"Supper'll be in an hour."

"Can I help?"

Ava smiled, shaking her head. "No, I don't like anyone messing around my kitchen while I'm cooking."

"All right, then. I'll get out of your way."

For a moment, she thought he might say something more, but then he left the room. Only when she heard his footsteps all the way up the stairs, the door close at the top, and the music start again did she stow the shotgun away—leaving it where it would be handy if she needed it—and open the refrigerator to begin gathering ingredients.

She had always thought best when cooking, her hands going through the familiar motions while her mind worked through the problems of the day. Even as she mixed the flour and spices for the chicken, she considered what had happened today, and Boyd's reaction to it. Oh, he had sent those men on their way right smartly, but there was something different about him these last few days, an assurance, a light, that hadn't been there since he'd come to live with her.

Why didn't she just go ahead and give him his walking papers? Sure as there were stars in the sky, Boyd was going to go back to his old tricks. He was a Crowder, wasn't he? And Crowders were born to trouble. Even if they tried—and Boyd had tried, she gave him that—trouble found them one way or another. She could believe that someone working a plan out in his head would see Boyd Crowder and want to get that name, that set of nimble brains, on his side. And she could imagine how it would turn Boyd's head to be wanted, no matter how hard he tried not to let it.

He'd given it a good try, this whole normal life thing, but he wasn't born to it, and in the long run he would never be happy that way. Ava flipped the chicken over in the flour again, wondering if she was happy the way she was. Not even wondering, really, just being aware that she was marking time, still waiting for her life to start. What did she even want? she asked herself, dropping the breaded chicken into the hot fat.

If only she knew.


	21. Plan

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

"Boyd. Boyd! Wait up."

It was Kyle's voice. Boyd rolled his eyes—would this boy ever quit?—but he obediently waited up, as requested. "What is it now, Kyle? Have I not explained to you my lack of interest in your master scheme?"

"You haven't even heard the plan! Come on, just give it a listen."

"Why?"

"Why? Because … because it'll make you a mint of money."

"A mint of money, hm?" Boyd sighed. These plans never came through, not even when intelligent men of vision put them together. On the other hand, he happened to have seen a letter from Ava's bank when looking in her desk for a rubber band. If she didn't get a whole lot of cash, and quickly, she could lose her house. Over and above the fact that her house was currently also Boyd's refuge, he didn't want to see her lose everything she had because his brother had been terrible with money.

As if sensing the change in Boyd's attitude, Kyle pressed the advantage. "Just let us go somewhere quiet where we can talk. We'll tell you the whole thing, and you can help us fine-tune it, and then if you don't think it'll work, we'll—well, we'll back off."

Boyd highly doubted that, but he had ways of ensuring he'd be left alone if needed. Raylan Givens came to mind as a likely option. "All right. Ava's at work, we can go back to my place. No one will disturb us."

"Great! Great, we'll be there."

As he had anticipated, it was a simplistic plan … but there were elements he could work with. And far from requesting any fine-tuning on his part, Kyle seemed content to trumpet his own cleverness and to wait for what he appeared certain would be Boyd's fulsome praise. Also, they wanted to do it today, immediately, which meant they didn't want Boyd to take too much time thinking it over.

"Interesting," Boyd said at last.

"You're the best, Boyd. We need you. You'll come on board now, right, now you're sure we know what's what?"

The boy looked like a puppy, eager and waiting to be thrown a bone to. So Boyd did. "It's quite the plan." They didn't need him as badly as they said, though, which made him wonder if there was more to his particular role here than they were admitting to. But there was the letter from the bank … Boyd sat forward. "All right. I'm in."

"All right!" Kyle grinned in what he appeared to believe was a charming manner. His two idiot friends had remained silent through all of this, a wise move on their part, since they were hardly likely to sell the plan. "One more time. While you're taking the packets down to the splinter shaft, we're gonna transfer the cash to the truck."

"Pruitt's going to drive it down the mountain," Boyd filled in.

Pruitt looked at him, his mouth hanging half-open. Who in their right mind would trust someone like that with all that cash? On the other hand, Boyd would be inside the mine while this was going on, which left him with little to work with.

"That's right," Kyle confirmed. "And Marcus and I join you in the hole. And then—"

Behind him, Marcus said, "Boom."

"Drop the ceiling between us and the surface." Kyle looked at him, waiting for the approbation.

"Now, the man who'll be guardin' this take, I've known this man for quite some time. He will not easily part with company money."

"Who, Shelby?" Kyle stared at him, clearly not prepared for discussion on this topic. "Shit. Boyd, dude's older than shit."

"And yet, again, he's a steady hand on that 44 he keeps underneath his desk."

Kyle gave a nervous laugh, sharing a look with Pruitt, who gave a nervous laugh of his own and sat back. "You ain't gonna have to worry about Shelby," Kyle assured Boyd.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

Marcus was suddenly looming over him. "'Cause you're gonna kill him."

That was interesting. Not entirely surprising, but interesting. Boyd could think of a few ways he could turn this development to his advantage. He sat back. "Well, now, you never mentioned bloodshed. If you had brought this up earlier, I don't know if this conversation would have gone on this long."

The look on Kyle's face said the burying of the relevant information had not been accidental. "You've killed men for far less, Boyd. Let's keep our eye on the prize."

"You take Shelby down in the shaft until you set up the det. Once it's wired, you lay a shovel upside his head real hard. Cave-in'll take care of the rest." Marcus sounded pleased with the whole idea, as though he wished he would be the one wielding the shovel.

"See, that's the genius of the whole thing. Everybody'll think that he stole the money, tried to blow up the shaft behind him, but instead, premature detonation, and we was just the poor miners that got caught up in all of it."

Boyd had carefully pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and now he gestured with it to see if any of the idiots would notice it. "Well, if this is gonna go down today, the devil lies in the details."

"You don't worry about the details," Kyle snapped impatiently. "Let me worry about the details, all right? We're countin' on you for one thing, and one thing alone."

"What's that?" As if Boyd didn't know. And someone ought to tell this impetuous young hothead that a man who let someone else look to the details was dead already and didn't even know it. No doubt he would learn.

"Powder-man, Boyd. We need you to make sure this mountain don't come down on us, and kill us."

Boyd gave a small nod, which Kyle took as agreement.

He started pulling things out from the bag at his feet, taking his eyes off Boyd, who punched a button on his cell phone and laid it on the chair behind the cushion.

"Now, once you set it we're gonna detonate remotely. All right? ATF'll be all over this thing. We don't need any extra det wire tippin' 'em off."

The house phone rang, and the room went silent.


	22. Cool

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

As the phone kept ringing, Kyle and his idiots stared at Boyd with hostility, as though they had thought he had somehow turned off the house phone for the duration of their discussion. But not as though they suspected anything, which pleased him.

"Well, I should probably get that," Boyd said mildly, getting to his feet even as Kyle rolled his eyes and sighed loudly at the interruption.

He picked up the handset and said hello as if he was speaking with someone. Behind him, Pruitt hovered in the doorway, as Boyd had suspected one of them would, so he carried on his half of the imaginary conversation quietly, unhurried, even as Marcus and Kyle whispered to each other in full earshot of the cell phone Boyd had left open on the chair.

"That his girlfriend?"

"He should be so lucky."

"We should all be so lucky."

Boyd stifled the surge of anger he felt at the idea of one of these idiots laying a hand on Ava. There was no room for anger in this plan; anger would only put him on edge and keep him from acting with a clear head.

"Come on," Kyle shouted to him from the other room. "All we gotta do is charge this thing up and we're ready to rock. Let's go!"

"Let's wrap it up, Boyd," Pruitt urged in a harsh whisper.

Boyd murmured to "Ava" on the phone, holding up a finger for Pruitt to wait. Pruitt rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest and looking out the window, his foot tapping with impatience.

In the living room, Marcus whispered, "You think he knows?"

Kyle laughed. "Don't worry about Boyd."

"Kyle, what if he bails on us?"

"We do him now instead o' later. When he goes down the mine, we'll just blow him up." They both laughed.

Boyd couldn't help a faint laugh as well. At their transparency, at their stupidity, at their arrogance. A lesser man than he would have seen their "twist" coming a mile away. Who better to set up as the fall guy, the stooge, than Boyd Crowder? No one would believe he had really gone straight—after all, he barely believed it himself.

From the living room, they called for Pruitt. Into the phone, Boyd said, "I gotta go now, Ava." He hung the phone up and walked past Pruitt, his decision made. They wanted to double-cross him? Well, then, it appeared all bets were off.

"Got you on a tight leash, huh?" Marcus said, getting up as Boyd entered the room.

"I wouldn't say that." He took his seat, reaching back for his cell phone, snapping it closed and sliding it back into his pocket.

"Seems to me, Boyd, we're runnin' out of time."

"Well, what it is that you're askin' me to do I can do, but radio det leads to a whole new host of complexities. There's only one way this is gon' work."

"How's that?" Kyle asked, his irritation very thinly disguised.

"You and your boys, you do exactly what I say, when I say it. That's the only way I can keep us all alive."

They all looked at him, and he wondered how long they could keep pretending he was anything other than their patsy. But then Kyle threw up his hands in an exaggerated show of trust. "Well, hell, Boyd, many people as you robbed?" He got to his feet, hand over his heart. "I wouldn't have it any other way." He held the hand out to Boyd to shake.

Boyd got to his feet, shaking the hand, feeling that old surge of excitement. It was fun putting together a plan, he had to admit it. Fun to run the plan. Fun to outwit the idiots who thought they were smarter than you.

They got to work getting things set up, including charging the battery for the remote detonator. Kyle left most of the work up to Marcus and Pruitt, pacing back and forth himself like a nervous cat. Boyd filled the sink and began washing up the dishes, taking his time with it, scrubbing each item until it gleamed.

"Is it charged?" Kyle asked, gesturing to the battery that sat at Boyd's left.

He hadn't looked, but he thought it probably was. Still, they didn't need to know that. "No, Kyle, for the fifth time, it is not."

Before Kyle could complain, the way he had the first four times, they heard a car engine outside. It was too early for Ava, whose shift at the beauty parlor wouldn't end for another few hours.

Kyle looked through the window. "Who the hell is that?"

Boyd couldn't help but smile. Raylan had the most entertaining timing. "Well, that's a United States Federal Marshal," he said, keeping his face deadpan, enjoying Kyle's immediate agitation.

"Well, what's he doin' here, Boyd?"

"I couldn't say."

Raylan was driving pretty fast. He took the turn into Ava's front yard with the tires squealing a bit, and pulled to a stop between Boyd's truck and Kyle's. Boyd could hear his voice as he emerged from the car. "Hello, fellas. Don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"You don't need to know us," Pruitt said petulantly. "We mind our own business. Spose it'd be best you do the same."

"Well, now, that wouldn't be like me."

Boyd couldn't help a grin. There really was nothing quite like Raylan. Now they'd have some fun.

"What do we do?" Kyle demanded of Boyd.

Without leaving the sink, Boyd said evenly, "Well, my play's always to stop 'im before he gets on the front porch."

"Shit, Boyd." Kyle left the room, and the house, banging the screen door behind him.

Left alone, Boyd took the fully charged battery off the charger, dipped it in the water, then dried it off and put it back on the charger. Then he went onto the porch to make sure Kyle's big mouth didn't get them all in trouble. "Step inside to do the dishes for two minutes, look who comes to visit."

"Boyd. Your friends and I were just gettin' acquainted."

Raylan had made them for the two-bit idiots they were, Boyd could see. He leaned against the upright. "I can see that. What brings you up to the holler, Raylan?"

"Just need a word."

Boyd sauntered down the steps, enjoying the tension—he and Raylan so relaxed, all the others knotted up like Granny's knitting wool. Stopping in front of Raylan, he suggested to Kyle that he go make himself at home on the porch. Kyle wasn't happy about it, but he was hardly going to start something in front of a US marshal.

"Now, Boyd," Raylan said easily when Kyle was out of earshot, "I been doin' this long enough I can spot outlaws at a thousand paces. Your friends? They're packin'. One and all."

"I wouldn't know, but I'm sure none of them's carryin' with ill intent."

"Well, that's good."

"What are you after, Raylan?"

"Oh, your brother Bowman." Now, there was a name Boyd hadn't expected to hear today. "You know anything about him tradin' in stolen papers back when? Draw checks an' such."

"Well, there's little by way of illicit activity in this county that my brother did not have his hands on in one way or another."

"Which is why I'm here."

Behind them, the door of Boyd's truck squeaked as Kyle opened it. They both glanced that way, making sure it was nothing more than Kyle grabbing his jacket, before Boyd replied, "You never really knew my brother Bowman, did you, Raylan?"

"I saw him play football."

"Gunned down in his prime by the very hand of the woman I now share his roof with."

"Mm-hm."

"Kind of hard to fathom his end, given the life that he lived."

Raylan took his hat off, holding it up to keep the sun out of his eyes, leaning toward Boyd as if to see in his eyes more than what Boyd was saying with his mouth, so Boyd gave him the answer he was looking for, giving up his brother's paper-pusher as if it was a sacrifice. In truth, Boyd didn't much care what happened to the man. If Raylan wanted to put him in jail, more power to him.

Behind him, Kyle's voice, loudly. "Come on, Boyd."

Raising his voice, Boyd said, "Well, I guess me and these boys, we need to get on to work." Entertaining as it had been to have Raylan stop by, it might prove problematic later. Or it could be useful. It was the kind of gamble that Boyd loved, waiting to see how the die would fall, how he could spin the number to his advantage. He had forgotten what a rush all this clandestine activity could be. "Anything else you need?"

"Not right now."

"You take care of yourself, Raylan."

"You, too, Boyd." It was a warning.

Boyd let it lie, turning his back on Raylan and returning to the idiots on the porch.

"What the hell was that about?" Kyle demanded.

"Some questions about my dead brother Bowman."

"Is that right? What kind of questions?"

"It's personal. Besides, we got more pressing issues to attend to." He pushed past them all and went back into the house, pretending to discover that the battery was defective.

"We gotta pick up another one!"

"Hell, no, it's ninety minutes there and back, we'll miss the shift." Kyle fiddled with the battery as though he could make it charge.

"We'll do it again next time," Boyd suggested.

"There ain't gonna be no next time, Boyd!" Marcus shouted, getting in his face. "This the only chance we got!"

"Most important thing to know in this business is when to walk away."

"We're not walkin' away. We'll hit up the Radio Shack on the way there, try to rig some'n' up, all right?" Kyle said, getting between Boyd and Marcus.

Boyd nodded, and Marcus allowed himself to be herded from the kitchen by Kyle.

With them all out of the room, Boyd snatched a sheet of paper and scribbled down a quick note for Ava while Kyle stood there and fumed with impatience.

Hanging the note on the refrigerator, Boyd said, "Well, now, that didn't take long, did it? You want to live long in this business, you got to know your ABCs: Always Be Cool."

Hands in his pockets, he strolled past Kyle like he didn't have a care in the world.


	23. Trust

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Ava shut the door behind her and leaned against it with a sigh. She liked doing hair, she really did. But dealing with the customers, most of whom thought they were better than she was because they talked better and smelled better with their fancy expensive perfumes—although they didn't look better, she thought with some pride—and because she worked for their pay. Well, if she did their hair wrong, they would be the ones paying for it, she thought, imagining what she could have done to the last lady who had been so hell-bent on a perm. Come to think of it, that perm was about all the punishment the lady needed, and she had asked for it herself. Seemed happy with it, too, even though it made her look like a poodle. Ava smiled, thinking of her walking around while everyone talked behind her back wondering why she'd done that to her hair.

The house was quiet with Boyd up the mountain at the mine. She liked the quiet, but it was quiet when he was here, too, and still comforting to have someone else in the house she could talk to if she wanted.

The mail was in her hands, and she leafed through it. Bills, all of it. Most of them just fine, but the mortgage … they were going to foreclose on the house if she didn't come up with more money. In her pocket were the crumpled bills from today's tips—not enough. Her paycheck would come through on Friday, but it wouldn't be enough. Boyd's rent would come due next week, and he paid it like clockwork, without a murmur, and his share and more of the groceries and electric, but it wouldn't be enough, either.

"What the hell am I gonna do?" she muttered under her breath.

* * *

Boyd remembered why he had always loved this kind of thing, keeping his cool under pressure, acting like it was just another shift when there was so much to prepare for. Staying on his toes, ready to change the plan whenever needed. You had to be flexible—you never knew who was going to try to screw you over for their own gain, or what might go wrong just from the sheer cussedness of daily life.

The adrenaline felt good. He felt like himself again. How had he thought he could give this up? He supposed he ought to be grateful to Kyle for forcing him back to his old ways again … but then, Kyle intended to kill him and set him up as a patsy, which didn't make for a situation where gratitude was easy to come by.

They'd seen the payroll get delivered before they started their shift, so at least things were starting off right. It remained to be seen whether they would continue that way. Kyle's pretended sickness went off well, no questions asked, and they all gave up their cell phones like little lambs. So far, so good.

* * *

Ava stuffed the mail in her purse and dropped her purse and keys on the counter. Boyd had left the kitchen in a mess, the sink full of dirty water, which wasn't like him at all. Last thing she wanted to do right now was clean up after somebody else. She'd been sweeping up those ungrateful bitches' hair all day. Wouldn't it be nice, she thought wistfully, if just once she could get home and someone else could take care of her? Never happened with Bowman, sure as hell never did with Raylan, whose mind was always somewhere else, and Boyd was good about cleaning up after himself, but never thought about ways he could step up.

What was she thinking? Boyd was her renter, not her roommate. They didn't live together, not in any traditional sense. He had no obligation to her—and taking care of her would be overstepping the bounds she had set for him.

Grabbing a glass from the draining board, she opened the freezer and started scooping out ice into the glass before she filled it with water, feeling the cool liquid refreshing her.

On the freezer was a note with her name on it. Boyd never left her notes. Maybe he was apologizing for leaving the kitchen in such a mess? That would be like him.

She opened it, reading the contents: _Call this number 606-142-4875 at exactly 6:05 pm. Don't tell anyone. Boyd._

"What the hell?"

* * *

It was all up to Ava now. Boyd had prepped everything as well as he could. If Ava didn't call, if she didn't trust him, the whole plan might go awry, and he could be dead or back in prison before the end of the day. If she did call, if she did trust him, he could help her keep her house. He would have to wait and see.

Shelby was cool and collected, just like Boyd had predicted he would be. The plan depended on Shelby not doing anything stupid, which was why Boyd had told the idiots about the gun under the desk. He had no desire to be killed in a shootout. And with Kyle behind the gun at Shelby's head, Boyd could be reasonably certain there would be no accidental weapon discharges that might send the plan off-kilter.

Deflecting Marcus's attention from himself unfortunately led Marcus to add his gun to Shelby's problems, and that had the potential to cause problems, Marcus being the hothead he was. Fortunately, Shelby was bent on keeping his head intact, so he held himself together enough to open the safe.

Bless her heart. The surge of relief and elation he felt when the phone in Kyle's pocket rang was a good feeling. Ava had trusted him. He could make this work now.

As he had anticipated, Kyle took the other idiots with him when he left the trailer. Boyd would never have been that stupid, he thought complacently as he carefully arranged the money and the explosives to suit his own purposes.

He looked at Shelby. "You stick with me and you'll live to see tomorrow."

"Sounds good. What do you need me to do?"

"Trust me."

Shelby took a moment to think that over, then nodded.

"All right."

This was the other part of the plan he couldn't entirely predict. Would the idiots betray him and try to kill him when he was down the mine, or would they play straight? He was pretty sure he knew, but there was always the possibility they might surprise him.

Deep in the belly of the mine, he heard the explosion, and smiled to himself. It was over, and he had won, on all counts.

All that was left was the clean-up. He and Shelby went back up to the surface, finding destruction and chaos waiting for them. And Marcus, still alive. But not for long. Boyd shot him point-blank, and didn't feel at all bad about it. Some idiots didn't deserve to live.

"What would've happened if they'd checked that bag?" Shelby asked.

"We'd be dead, Shelby." He turned to the foreman. "I'm sorry to get you mixed up in this. It wasn't supposed to go down this way."

"Well, sir, I'm walkin' away, far as I know. Unless you plan on puttin' one in me?"

"No, sir, I am not."

"Then I guess you saved my life. I got nothin' to complain about. Who'd listen if I did?"

"Then might I be so bold as to ask you for a favor?"

The sirens were wailing in the night, closing in. There wasn't much time.

"Name it."

"The cops gon' come. ATF, dogs, everything our Federal government has to bear. Now, you tell them that I had to go home. It was an emergency. Nothin' else. Do you understand?"

Shelby was nodding.

"Shelby?"

"Done, sir."

They shook on it, and Boyd headed back down the mountain. Now, to tell Ava what he had done and hope she understood.


	24. Why

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Ava had been waiting for Boyd for hours, sitting in the stairs in the dark, without the energy to turn on a light. Smoked her way through half a pack of cigarettes, though, trying to calm her nerves, trying not to leap on him in anger when he walked through the door demanding to know what kind of shit he had just gotten her into.

When he opened the door and caught sight of her, there was something in his face she hadn't seen in a good long while—a life, a liveliness. His eyes were bright and awake, for all that he was filthy and looked like he'd been through a war. Ava liked seeing him like this, some part of her that had been asleep for a long time waking up in answer, but she held on to the knowledge that he had gotten her involved in one of his shady deals, sure as shootin', and she should kick him out before he got the door closed behind him.

She didn't, though, her curiosity too strong. Holding perfectly still, she raised her eyebrows in challenge, not letting her expression change.

Boyd shut the door. "Well, I can see by your face you are somewhat troubled."

Wasn't that just the damn understatement of the year. She nodded, not sure what she wanted to know, and afraid she would ask how he was before she asked what he had done.

"I can only imagine what I had to do with that."

She gestured with his note, quoting it. "'Call this number at exactly 6:05 pm. Don't tell anybody.'"

Boyd put his bag down by the door and brought a chair over, setting it in front of her. "Well, I admit, it was terse." He sat down in the chair, leaning forward just a little. "I wrote it under some time pressure."

She wasn't having any more of this soft-voiced dancing around the topic. "Boyd, what the hell is this?"

"A favor."

"And what would've happened if I hadn't called?"

"Maybe you wouldn't be speakin' to me right now, Ava."

It took a moment for his words to sink in, for her to understand what he had trusted her with. A warmth filled her that he had counted on her, but she pushed it back. She had no business being flattered that Boyd Crowder trusted her to be part of one of his underground schemes. And he hadn't even asked! "Damn it, Boyd," she said, her voice quivering with anger and a retroactive fear for him, "what've you gone and made me a part of?"

"Just savin' my life."

He meant it, Ava could see that, but she wasn't going to be drawn in.

Boyd shook his head once. "Nothin' else." He closed his eyes wearily, swaying a little bit in the chair.

Without thinking, Ava got up, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you fixed up."

"I'm not hurt."

"That's not what I meant." She took the bottle of Wild Turkey down from the top shelf, with two glasses, and poured one for each of them.

Boyd returned his chair to the table and lifted the glass even as he sat. He started to take a slow sip, but thought better of it, and tossed the whole thing off, shaking his head as it burned its way down, before holding out his glass for another.

Ava watched him like a hawk as he poured, but although he nodded his thanks, he didn't reach for the glass again. Satisfied, she took her seat again. "Tell me now. Everything. It was those men, wasn't it? The ones who came by?"

"It was. They'd been following me for some time now, forcing their scheme on me, and I said no. I did. Over and over again. But they wouldn't take no for an answer—and somewhere along the line it got so I didn't want to give them no for an answer any longer." He met Ava's eyes across the table. "I'm sorry to admit it. I suppose in your eyes that makes me a lesser man. In my eyes it made me feel like a lesser man, without the strength to hold fast against temptation."

She shrugged, not wanting to commit one way or the other until she heard the whole story.

"They wanted to rob the payroll, send Shelby down into the hole, set up explosives, blow it up while he was down there. I was supposed to go down there, too, set everything up. The plan was, I knocked Shelby out and came back up and then they blew the mine … but I had my doubts about that part. I think they wanted Boyd Crowder to take the fall for them. An easy set-up."

"So what happened?"

"I created a diversion, did what I needed to do. Then, while I was down the mine, they pushed the remote, only … it wasn't me they blew up."

Ava took a shocked breath. "You killed them?"

"I was responsible for their death, in a way, yes … but I don't think they intended to let me live through the day. Didn't think I was goin' to find a way out. Part of me just felt like layin' down. Then it happened."

"But you killed them instead."

"I didn't have a choice. Now, if they hadn't of pulled that switch on me while I was down there in that hole, things would have gone down different, so the way I see it, Ava, they killed themselves. With greed and avarice."

She could see it that way, too, sort of, and wondered if she had been around Crowders for too long. Then it occurred to her what might have happened on the other end of the phone when she dialed. She found she wasn't horrified, just … wanted to know. "When I called that cell, did I—?"

"No."

Ava breathed a sigh of relief.

"It allowed me to kick them out of the trailer. I put a little cash on the Emulex, a little Emulex on the cash … and I made sure that the blasting cap went in their packet and not mine."

"You coulda run when Raylan came by. Just lit out and let the chips fall." Part of her wished he had; part of her was glad he hadn't and that he was still sitting here in her kitchen.

He straightened his shoulders, looking at her steadily across the table. "What does it say about me that that thought never crossed my mind?"

Ava leaned forward across the table. She needed this answer, straight, if she didn't get any others. "Why did you agree to rob that mine in the first place?"

There was no hesitation in his answer. "Because it's what I do." They looked at each other, silence stretching between them. "It's who I am, Ava. Hard as I've been tryin' to pretend otherwise. Everybody else seems to know that but me."

Unable to argue with him—she had known, Raylan had known, seems these men from the mine and that Dewey Crowe fella had all known—Ava nodded.

"Anyway," Boyd continued, "I came across that letter that you received from the bank."

"Boyd." But she didn't know what to say. She hadn't wanted him to know how bad it was.

"I violated your privacy. For that transgression I do apologize."

"So you know that they're after the house." He nodded. Ava laughed a little, leaning back for the first time. "I don't suppose any of that money survived the blast."

She hadn't expected a response, but without a word, Boyd leaned down and picked up the bag that lay at his feet, tossing it lightly on the chair next to her.

"There should be at least fifteen to twenty thousand dollars in there. Now, it's not enough to pay it off, but enough to buy you some security for a little while."

Ava picked up the bag, opening it and looking down at the fat wads of cash that lay inside it. "Shit."

Before she could think of anything else to say, Boyd abruptly looked outside, his head turning back and forth as he listened and watched for something coming.

He leaned across the table, saying, "Ava, there's one more favor that I must ask of you," even as the blue lights of the law began to flash against the curtains.

Shifting nervously in the chair, she listened to the sirens coming closer.

"Ava, you can help me—or you can refuse. Either way, I will understand."

Outside, the tires ground on the gravel as the sirens turned off.

Boyd glanced in the direction of the door, and then looked back at Ava. "But I'm gonna need to know your answer right now."

She stared at him, undecided.


	25. Disrespect

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Boyd sat easily in the chair. So far the ATF interrogation had gone about the way he had anticipated, and he would be out of here and on his way home very shortly, as long as it continued to proceed in the same manner. He felt supremely confident, in a way he had not felt in a very long while. Since he went to prison the last time, he believed. Or possibly he had never felt this confident before. He was a wiser Boyd today, a Boyd who had experienced many things that the angry young man Raylan had shot had never imagined. In short, he was at the top of his game.

He almost pitied the ATF agents.

Fortunately, Kyle's own stupidity made the failure of the plan an easy sell. It had not been a particularly sophisticated plan, it had not been carried out with professionalism, and those involved had died. It would have been difficult to have feigned fear, so Boyd settled for a certain numbness of feeling when he discussed the imaginary threats made against himself and Ava. Well, imaginary against Ava. The threat against himself had been real enough, even if Kyle had never spelled it out in so many words.

The only thing that irriated him was the way they insisted on referring to Ava as Mrs. Crowder. Yes, she was his brother's widow, but she was a person in her own right. The least they could do was refer to her as Ms. Crowder, and he made that point, as patiently as he could manage, every time the name came up.

The younger ATF agent, less tired and less certain of Boyd's guilt than the elder, was paying more attention, as well, and he noticed the edge that had come into Boyd's voice as they mentioned Ava, turning his attack in her direction, making their own threats against her. But it was the wrong way to go, because Boyd knew that he could protect Ava against any threat to her far better than the Federal government, and he was not going to allow her to be involved in this if it took every two-dollar word in his vocabulary to talk rings around these men.

Then the elder one made his first—and last, as it turned out—mistake. He leaned across the table toward Boyd and said, "You know, I was just wondering. Did she screw all your relatives, or just you two?"

Anger shot through Boyd, white-hot and nigh irresistible. It took all his control, and he had a considerable amount, to keep the faint smile on his face, to keep his body from tensing, to remain polite. And he knew, in that moment, that he was much farther gone than he had ever imagined—that he loved this woman, body and soul, and would do anything to keep her safe, even from the filthy minds and thoughts of men such as the one across the table from him.

Remembering, always, his granny's dictum that you caught more flies with honey than with vinegar, he kept his voice even as he, too, leaned forward and replied, "Now, sir, I know you have an investigation to conduct, but—if you disrespect Ava one more time, I'm gonna come across this table."

That gave the agent a momentary pause, and then he leaped to the conclusion that Boyd had just handed him a jackpot. He turned to Raylan's boss and said, "Chief, it seems clear to me that Mr. Crowder just threatened a Federal officer. And I would think that that is reason enough for you to take him into custody."

Boyd knew his first sense of alarm of the interview. It was entirely possible his veiled threat, politely delivered as it had been, could be the thing that landed him back in jail, far from Ava, unable to keep the Federal government from coming after her.

And then salvation came in the form of Art Mullen, U.S. Marshal. Raylan's boss stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets. "Much as I might like to personally throw Mr. Crowder's ass in a holding cell, I think a threat against a Federal officer would be a little more specific." He had come around the table now, and he leaned down into the ATF agent's face. "Somethin' more along the lines of 'If you disrespect Ms. Crowder again, I'll beat the everlovin' shit out of you'."

That shut the ATF up good and proper, and Boyd didn't waste the moment. "You gonna charge me?"

The answer, it appeared, was no. He was a free man. He was on top of the world.

He exited the interview room with Ava, who had also been released, making an attempt to help her with her coat. He wanted to tell her about the extraordinary feelings he had identified in himself, feelings he could not remember holding for any other woman in his life, but this was neither the time nor the place—nor did he imagine she would receive those feelings with any type of welcome. No, he had to keep this to himself.

Ava brushed off his attempt at helping her, glaring at him, before walking back into the interview room to retrieve the purse she had left there.

Boyd walked over to Raylan's desk. "Raylan."

"Boyd." Raylan looked up and smiled at him. "I am impressed. How is it possible you're not in cuffs?"

Suddenly, Boyd knew who he could tell about his revelation. Raylan might not want to hear it, he might not believe—but he would understand. Leaning across Raylan's desk, Boyd said softly, "Well, when someone's threatening a woman that you care deeply for, there's no end to the lengths that you will go to keep that woman safe. Now, I seem to recall you bein' in that situation a time or two yourself."

As Raylan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Ava appeared from the interview room with her bag, heading for the door without so much as a glance at either of them.

Boyd continued, "In fact, I seem to recall you bein' in the same situation with the same woman." They smiled at each other, recognizing their similarities as they so often did. "Ain't that somethin'."

Pushing himself off of Raylan's desk, Boyd followed Ava from the room. She might not want to talk to him, he might not be able to tell her what he felt—but he could keep her safe, and that was enough. At least for now.


	26. Roads

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

"Ava! Wait for me." Boyd jogged a little to catch up with her.

Pulling the strap of her purse tighter into her shoulder, Ava ducked her head and walked faster, pretending she hadn't heard him.

"Ava!"

Clearly he wasn't going to stop without being told off in so many words, so Ava swung around to face him. "What do you want, Boyd?"

"I …" He seemed at a loss for words, unusual for Boyd. "I wanted to thank you. For not turning me in to the ATF."

"Seemed like a lot of paperwork." Truth be told, she wasn't entirely sure why she hadn't. She needed time, space, to think about what she had done. Had Raylan sitting there at his desk, just outside the office, had any bearing on her choice to back up Boyd? Or had she wanted the money? Or was it that she couldn't bear to send anyone, even Boyd Crowder, to jail?

"Well. I take it as a favor." He was smiling, looking at her with eyes that reminded her … God. They reminded her of Bowman's.

Ava felt a wave of revulsion sweep over her, revulsion and fear and confusion all mingling together. "I've gotta go."

"I thought we could go back to the house together."

She was shocked to remember he lived at her house. She didn't want him there, couldn't bear to have him there. Not right now. "No. Boyd, I need—time. I need to think."

He blinked, as if he was surprised by her response, then nodded, taking a step back. "Of course. I'll just … You go on."

"Thank you." Why was she thanking him for not insisting on coming with her to her own house? she asked herself. But, then, if it was still her house, that was because of him, because of what he had done. Had he done it for her? Had he done it because that was who he was? Had he done it because the other men boxed him in?

No, not that one. Boyd could have thought circles around those dummies, Ava thought with contempt. She was amazed that they had even though they could put one over on Boyd Crowder. He had been a lot of things in his life, but stupid had never been one of them.

She got into the car, turning the key in the ignition, then sat forward with her forehead pressed against the top of the steering wheel. What was she going to do? She had committed herself to the lie, for Boyd; she had committed herself to taking the money, from Boyd; she had committed herself to living in the house, with Boyd. There was no getting away from the Crowder men, it seemed.

But what bothered her the most was the growing feeling that she wasn't sure she wanted to get away from Boyd. He had been uniformly kind and thoughtful and polite in the months he had been living with her. He helped around the house, which his brother had damned sure never done. And he could be fun to have around, his conversation over the dinner table wide-ranging. More often than not, Ava left the table having something new to think about that she had never considered before, and she liked that for the first time someone seemed to appreciate that she could learn new things, and that she might want to.

Putting the car into gear, Ava tore out of the parking lot of the courthouse, hoping devoutly that she would never have to set eyes on the place today, enjoying the speed of the car and the feeling of control she got behind the wheel. She so rarely had that feeling of control anywhere else.

Even as she softened towards Boyd, thinking of the quiet days with him in the house, she remembered the look in his eye in the parking lot, the way for a dizzying, nauseating moment he had reminded her of Bowman. All those half-formed thoughts she was beginning to have about the way she and Boyd seemed to suit each other would have to yield to that undeniable fact, she told herself—that he would always remind her of his brother.

She pushed in the button for the cigarette lighter and waited, then lit a cigarette, turning up the music, hoping to distract herself. But the song, from the '80s, reminded her of Boyd saying he wanted to grow out his hair and become a singer, and she found herself picturing it, laughing at the idea.

The long roads between Lexington and Harlan were filled with the same kind of back and forth. She would apologize to Boyd, she would tell him she had lied to protect him, they would move tentatively forward into … No, no she wouldn't. She would tell Boyd that was the last straw, that he'd broken his promise and he'd have to go. Picturing the way he would look, stricken but resigned, she knew she couldn't go that far. She would tell Boyd she'd overlook it this time but that he needed to find a way to go back the mines because she wouldn't have him under her roof if he kept on down this road.

But she would have to reject the money if she did that, and she needed the money. And could Boyd even get another job in the mines after what had happened? Suspicion would attach to him, regardless of the ATF having let them go.

She pulled up in front of the house, turning the car off, and sat there looking at it, knowing it would be empty, feeling that emptiness as a weight rather than as a freedom, and not having the faintest clue what she wanted to do about it.


	27. Grateful

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Eventually Boyd had found someone to drive him home, and he arrived on the porch just as Ava was thawing some pork chops under the cold water faucet.

He stepped inside cautiously. "Ava."

"Boyd," she snapped. Then, feeling bad that she was taking her confusion out on him, "You're just in time for dinner."

"I am? I mean, what can I do to help?"

"Go wash up." She wasn't ready to talk to him yet. Maybe over dinner, once she'd finished cooking, which always cleared her head, she would know what she thought and what she wanted to say, but she didn't yet.

"Yes, ma'am."

Ava was grateful that he went without trying to push her to talk. This new Boyd showed a sensitivity to her moods and what she needed that she wouldn't have believed possible a year ago. But how long would that last? It had only taken a few months for him to go back to thieving, breaking the law, being dragged into who knew what kind of messes by people out for no good. How long would it take for the rest of his less positive traits to come back? Would she look to him one day for sympathy and understanding and find the same fist that had always met her when she went to Bowman for comfort?

No. Of that she was sure. Boyd was more subtle than his brother, considerably smarter. He wouldn't do something as easy as hit her … but what he did if he decided to turn that direction would be worse. She was sure of that, too. Could she live in fear, not knowing when she would come home and find that other Boyd in residence, her home no longer her own?

As she thought, her hands were peeling potatoes, turning the pork chops over in the breading, putting bacon grease in the skillet. Familiar tasks, tasks she loved doing. Not for the first time, she mourned what could have been—she'd have been so happy being a wife and a mother, taking an occasional shift at the beauty parlor to get away from the kids. If only the man she had run into first hadn't been a Crowder.

It was on that bitter note that Boyd entered the kitchen, and Ava turned a black and despairing look at him. Crowders. None of 'em any good.

"Why don't I set the table," he suggested, and he went about doing so, quickly, efficiently, and, most importantly, staying out of Ava's way, so that by the time she was done cooking, the table was ready and Boyd was seated there, waiting patiently.

As she leaned across the table to put the bowl of green beans on the hot pad, she happened to meet Boyd's eyes, and she was startled, both pleased and disturbed by the look she saw there. She wasn't a stranger to that look, not even from him—but somehow it was … softer than it used to be. Like, instead of seeing her just as a woman, he was seeing her as Ava. Like he was as surprised to be looking at her as she was to be looked at.

Something inside her was warmed by that. It had been a long time since any man had looked at her that way … and she wasn't too sure if anyone had ever looked at her like he really saw her before. Maybe even a Crowder could change, she thought.

Hastily she set down the beans and turned back to get the gravy for the mashed potatoes before sitting down herself.

Boyd waited until both their plates were full before he cleared his throat. "Can we talk now, Ava?"

No. Not yet, she thought. She didn't know what she wanted, how she felt, what to say. She wasn't ready. Would she ever be?

"You already said thank you." Ava hesitated. "And thank you. For what you did for me. The money, I mean."

"It was little enough to pay for what you've done for me all these months. Not just the roof over my head, but the meals, and the kindness. You didn't have to take me in, and you didn't have to be nice about it when you did, and I am … grateful."

"Well, so there we are. We're both grateful. Can we—can we leave it at that, Boyd?"

He looked at her across the table, his expressive face still as he considered the question. "Of course we can, Ava."

Boyd turned his attention to his plate, and Ava did the same, trying and failing to come up with anything else to talk about. It wasn't the first meal they had eaten together in silence, but it was the most uncomfortable one in a long time.


	28. Security

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

Boyd had not been surprised when the mine asked him not to come back. He wouldn't have wanted himself back, either, in their shoes. He was pleasantly surprised when they called to say that they were still willing to give him the paycheck that was owed to him. They must not realize that not all the money had been destroyed, which was also a relief. It was little enough he could do for Ava, try to save her house, after everything she had done for him.

When he parked his truck at the entrance to the mine, he was surprised to see a limousine parked there as well. Some higher-up from the mining company must be paying a visit. So rare to see one of them willing to be contaminated with the dust the working men lived in, he thought, but mildly and without heat. If he was rich, he wouldn't want to get his hands—or his shoes—dirty either, he imagined.

Before he reached the door of the mining office, it opened, a red-headed woman in a plain but clearly expensive black suit stepped out, and she called his name. "Carol Johnson," she explained. "Executive Vice President of Black Pike Coal. Thank you so much for comin' by—it is such a pleasure to meet you."

Taken aback, he mumbled, "Likewise, ma'am."

"Carol," she corrected, moving past him and down the steps. "First off, I want to thank you for doin' what you could to save our money, our mine, and, most of all, the lives of our miners." She took him by the arm and drew him along with her. "Black Pike understands that the most valuable commodity in all our mines is the miners. This company owes you a debt of gratitude."

Boyd was pleased with the concept, but wary. Enthusiasm such as this often came with a price tag, and he highly doubted this one would be an amount he was willing to pay.

Carol Johnson continued, "Which is why I was mortified when it was brought to my attention that you'd been mistakenly let go."

"Ah … mistakenly?"

"Boyd, I'm gonna cut to the chase. I'd very much like you to be a part of the Black Pike security team."

He was amused, and tried not to show it. Wasn't that just like putting the fox in charge of the hen house. The idea surely tickled his fancy. On the other hand, he wasn't quite sure just how to play this, and how far to take her at her word.

"Miss Johnson," he said at last, overriding her attempts to put them on an equal first-name basis, "I mean no offense, and I would be thrilled to be hired back by your company, but if it's all the same, I'd just as soon have a job drivin' a truck."

"No offense taken, but it's not all the same. I want you to be part of this team."

"Well, again, ma'am," he said, putting all the humility he had built up over the last few months into his expression, "I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I'm not sure if you're familiar with, uh … how should I put this? My background."

There was no hesitation in her response. "Oh, Boyd, I know all about your background. In fact, it's what tells me you're exactly the man we need."

And that was how he found himself in the back of that long, shiny limousine, being dragged through Penney's while Carol Johnson bought him a suit, and watching a video recording of a man who wanted to hold Black Pike responsible for the blasting they did on the top of the mountains and what happened after that blasting. Unfortunately for the activist, what had happened just after the blast on the video was that a large boulder had lodged itself on top of him. Carol Johnson explained that Black Pike was being sued by the family in a Federal civil suit.

Boyd immediately assumed he must be along for the ride as some manner of personal bodyguard to Miss Johnson, and apparently that was part of it, but only part. The rest apparently needed to wait until they arrived at the courthouse.

He was concerned, yes, never liking to be carried along in the process of buying a pig in a poke, but intrigued, as well. This was by far the most interesting thing that had happened to him in months.

She brought him to the courthouse in Lexington and left him alone in the courtroom, when who should walk in but Raylan Givens himself. Naturally.

Miss Johnson came back just at that moment, explaining on Boyd's behalf that it had been considered better to have the defendants inside the courtroom rather than out in the hallway with the plaintiff's family. Boyd suspected there was more to it than that, especially given the way Miss Johnson had carried on about it, drawing more attention than was necessary to the proximity.

Boyd performed the introductions and Miss Johnson explained his presence there as part of her security team.

Raylan, of course, was skeptical about that, but he let it go, merely choosing to compliment Boyd's newly purchased suit before going on about his business, searching the judge's seat for any kind of tampering.

This caught Boyd's interest, and he got up, approaching the bench, leaning in to speak softly. "I would never presume to tell you how to do your job, and I understand that I am very new to this security game. However, I have spent a considerable amount of time hiding explosives. Now, if you would like, I'd be more than happy to walk around here with you, show you where I would hide mine, in case there might be a place that you might miss."

He'd caught Raylan on a good day, it seemed, because his old friend seemed more amused than irritated by the whole situation. He did shine his flashlight full into Boyd's face as a measure of the offense he took at the suggestion, but that was no more than was to be expected when a man's fitness for his work had been called into question, in Boyd's estimation.

"You have any explosives on you now?" Raylan asked.

"Do you want to pat me down?"

Raylan declined, gesturing to Boyd to resume his seat, and Miss Johnson came forward, unable to be left out much longer. Boyd had wondered how long it would take her. She quickly made it clear that she knew more about the past relationship between himself and Raylan than Boyd had expected, although he supposed he shouldn't be surprised that she had been so thorough.

As Raylan left, Miss Johnson stopped him to ask if she could trust Boyd to have her back. Boyd found this a fascinating question, as he could not predict what Raylan might say.

Thoughtfully, as if he was only just now considering Boyd's trustworthiness—and perhaps that was the case—Raylan said, "I am an officer of the law, and I'm in a court of law, and while I'm not sworn in, I do feel compelled to tell you the truth."

"Truth is the best policy," Boyd agreed.

"The truth is … I don't know if you can trust Boyd to have your back, but, while he has tried to kill me, and I have shot him, and imprisoned him, and I wouldn't be surprised if our paths again cross in such a manner, he has had my back on two occasions. Once was the last day I was in the mine, and the other one not so long ago."

Boyd was touched by his friend's honesty, and by the memory of that day in the mine, and that day when his father was killed. He would trust Raylan with his life, if not his freedom, and it was heartening to know that the feeling was mutual.

Later in the day, he had the opportunity to see Raylan in action, when his old friend's quick thinking, seeing through a false bomb threat, spared the judge, and Miss Johnson, and quite possibly Boyd himself, from being shot down in the street by the son of the deceased gentleman from the video.

In the limousine on the way home, Miss Johnson finally came to the ultimate point of the day's events and her intentions for his employment.

After he apologized for nearly falling for the false bomb threat and potentially endangering her life, she smirked and, without taking her eyes from the newspaper she was perusing, said, "Boyd, my security needs go beyond havin' a bodyguard. From the outset, I have had other things in mind for you to do, things for which I believe you are uniquely qualified."

And the pieces fell into place, everything making sense. He should have seen it from the start, he thought, amused and irritated with himself for thinking he was valued for something other than his Crowder legacy. "Well, that sounds an awful lot like you want me to return to my outlaw ways."

As indeed she did—she made it very clear that she was bringing him on as 'security' in order to have someone deal with Mags Bennett, the biggest marijuana grower in Harlan, and a force to be reckoned with.

It was a big task, and not likely one that could be done well by anyone less than a Crowder. Still, Boyd disliked being backed into a corner and having the choice of whether to go straight or not taken away from him. He wished he could talk to Ava about it.


	29. Temptation

_Thank you for reading! Particular thanks to last week's anonymous reviewer for your kind words - you made my day!_

* * *

"You goin' back to the mine?" Ava asked Boyd at breakfast. Last she'd heard, he'd been fired, but then he'd been gone all of one long day and seemed like he came home with a job. At least, he'd been out every day since.

"Not exactly. The mining company has me working security."

On the face of it, he looked like he was telling the truth. But taking Boyd at face value had always been a gamble—and one she'd lost at more than once. Ava looked at his bowed head, his hands carefully spreading butter on the toast, and thought how easy it would be to slip into Boyd's reality, where he "worked security" and went to a job every day like a normal man, not like a coal miner, not like a Crowder, and where she cooked for him like … like a wife, she realized with some alarm.

Hastily she got to her feet, rooting in the refrigerator for the grape jelly she'd put up last summer, hiding so she could mentally slap herself. They were not a couple. She did not want to be a couple with Boyd, no matter how sincere his eyes were or how gentle his dazzling white smile when he turned it on her. No matter that there was nothing Ava wanted more than a man who would be gentle with her.

She found the grape jelly behind the milk carton and emerged from the refrigerator as conflicted as she'd been when she went in. "Here," she said, her tone clipped, and shoved the jelly over Boyd's shoulder.

"Thank you. I was just thinking how much I'd like something sweet to start the day with." His fingers lingered on hers as he took the jar, and his eyes said he meant the fact that she'd anticipated his needs more than he meant the jelly itself.

Ava cleared her throat and took her seat, devoting herself to the plate of eggs and ham so she didn't have to respond.

"Sadly, I don't believe I will be back in time for supper. I was lookin' forward to those stewed tomatoes."

"They'll keep. I'll leave a plate for you."

"I'd be obliged if you would."

The words were polite, but the tone … There was a new softness in his voice when he spoke to her, ever since the mine job, and Ava hated herself for how much she liked it.

They ate the rest of the meal in silence, and then Boyd excused himself, picking up his plate and coffee mug. He came around for hers, as well, leaning over her, his breath on her cheek. Ava had to suppress a shiver, wondering what it would be like to feel more than his breath on her. She jumped up, instead, nearly knocking into him as she took the dishes from his hands. "I'll get them."

"All right. Have a good day, Ava."

He took his jacket and keys and headed out of the house. Ava sank back into the chair, her face resting in her hands, for a good long while after he left, before she pushed herself up out and started gathering the dishes again. The familiarity of the task, scraping the plates and piling them in the sink, running the water and getting the soap, helped put her mind straight.

"He's back to his old tricks," she said out loud to herself. "'Security' my ass."

He was happier, though, more at ease with himself. Going down the mine had never been right for him. It had been a reminder every day of his failures, a reminder that all his dreams had been for nothing. Ava knew how that felt. She wanted to sit down with him and put her arm around his shoulders and tell him she understood, that she forgave him, that she—

What was she thinking? She should be booting him out the door, not imagining a tender scene of forgiveness for him sliding back into his old ways. Not that she was surprised—she had told herself, Raylan had told her, Boyd's very silence and misery had told her. He was a Crowder. He'd always been a Crowder. Just like as if she'd taken a snake into her home and expected it to be a kitten.

Then again, wasn't she a Crowder, too? She could've gone to the courthouse anytime since Bowman died and gone back to being Ava Randolph, but she never had. Maybe some of that Crowder ruthlessness was in her, too. Maybe that's what called to her in this new Boyd, this confident, sure of himself, attractive Boyd.

Hands immersed in the soapy water, she wondered what he kissed like. It seemed like a long time since she'd had a kiss, and she knew he wanted to, as badly as he ever had when Bowman was alive. Maybe it wouldn't hurt, just one kiss—

"It wouldn't be just one kiss, and you know it," she told herself sternly, pulling the plug out of the sink to let the water drain out of it. If she ever once kissed Boyd, there would be no going back. She knew that. She just didn't know whether what came after would be better or worse—or how long she could resist the temptation to find out.


	30. Shotgun

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

It was a relief to come home, as it always was. For once, Boyd had a place where he could leave his problems at the door, where he could come in and put down everything that was worrying him, all the plans and plots that filled up his moments outside, and just be Boyd.

"Ava? You here?" he called, but there was no answer. She must be out.

No sooner was he through the door than he was jumped. Two men, one small and one large. Dickie and Coover Bennet. Clearly their mother had sent them after him. Boyd was wiry and strong, and could usually hold his own in a fight, but Coover was a massive giant of a man, and too dumb to know when he was hurt. And with Dickie hissing encouragement like a venomous snake—well, this wasn't a situation Boyd felt particularly confident about getting out of unscathed.

Then things took a turn decidedly for the worse, when Coover stopped punching him and held him down. Because the only thing Coover liked better than hurting someone himself was watching someone else do it. Or something else, Boyd amended, watching Dickie drag a canvas bag full of something that wiggled toward him. Slowly, Dickie started pulling the zipper on the bag.

"Now, this is just business, Boyd. We got a little warnin' for you here."

"You gotta go to another house, you gotta stand up in that meetin'? You're stupid!" Coover shouted, spitting in Boyd's face as he did so.

Then, above their heads, one of the most welcome sounds Boyd had ever heard: Ava Crowder's shotgun. Coover reared up in terror at the warning shot, his hands in front of his face.

Ava racked another round into the chamber, leveling the gun at Coover. "Back off!"

A loaded shotgun was certain to knock sense into the dumbest animal, Boyd thought, watching the Bennett brothers stumble backward, their hands in the air.

"Girl, you ain't shootin' nobody!" Coover said. Clearly he didn't know enough about Ava.

The thing in the bag squeaked, drawing Ava's attention. "What the hell?" Without another second's thought, she shot the bag.

Coover dove for it, screaming out "No! No!" He picked up the bag, facing Ava with what appeared to be genuine grief. "You killed Charlie!"

"Get out of my house!" Ava screamed back, the shotgun pointed straight at the center of Coover's chest. For a moment, it was a toss-up whether he would listen or charge, but she brandished the weapon, moving closer. "Make me ask again. Out!"

Coover moved back, reluctantly. Boyd made a note of that—he'd have to keep an eye on Ava, or tell Mags to keep Coover chained up. She didn't generally approve of violence against women, so she might listen.

"Go on!" Ava shouted, when the Bennetts weren't moving fast enough for her taste.

"You should've killed me, girl," Coover warned her, even as Dickie grabbed him by the jacket and tugged him out the door.

Ava shut the door behind them, keeping the shotgun pointed in their direction even as she sank down next to Boyd, reaching for his hand. Only when she heard the roar of the Bennetts' truck pulling out did she put down the gun. She leaned over Boyd, gently touching his face. "Let me get you something for that."

"Thank you kindly." He meant something entirely different, something that was awakened by her proximity and her gentle touch, but she was gone before he could be more clear. He moved to the stairs, sinking down on a step, feeling the sting of guilt more than the sting of the wounds to his face. The Bennetts had been inside the house. He had brought this here, this violence, to what he thought of as a safe haven.

Ava brought back a cloth and some rubbing alcohol and dabbed it against the cuts on his face. He'd be bruised and sore tomorrow, he expected, but for tonight it wasn't too bad.

"I'm sorry, Ava."

"You want to tell me what's goin' on, Boyd?"

"It's pretty obvious the Bennetts are tryin' to secure those properties, same as Black Pike, but Black Pike owns the entire mountain top. The only reason we're chasin' those properties is 'cause the Bennetts are, too." There had to be something more, some piece of the puzzle Mags Bennett held that Boyd couldn't see, but what?

"You can't keep doin' what you're doin', Boyd."

"No," he agreed. "But if I can figure out what the Bennetts are up to, there might be a way out of this thing that works for us."

"For us?" Ava echoed softly, sounding confused.

He had used the word without thinking. In his mind, it was him and Ava, all the way. But of course, no 'us' existed, at least, not yet. He had some hopes that maybe someday it might. Boyd held her gaze for a moment until she looked away, busying herself folding up the cloth she had used on his face.

"Well, I don't know much, but seems to me it always comes down to one thing."

"What's that?"

"Money."


	31. Chance

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Boyd had never liked walking into a situation where everyone else in the room was more prepared than he was, and this standoff between the Bennetts and Black Pike Coal seemed like a good way to get yourself killed if you didn't know more than at least one party. In this case, he was willing to bet a good deal that Mags knew what was what far more thoroughly than Carol Johnson, for all Johnson's bravado and 'one of the boys' brashness. Which meant it was Mags he had to out-think ... and even for him, that would be a challenge. Mags had kept her family on top through force of will, yes, but also through her formidable intelligence.

So Black Pike wanted Mags's land and Mags didn't want to sell. It was a story replayed over and over again among these mountains, in and of itself not of particular interest. But the players involved—Mags didn't fight for the sake of fighting. A person stood to lose too much, and too often, that way. She wouldn't go up against Black Pike unless she thought she could win. And winning, for Mags, meant a lot of money.

It wasn't difficult to procure the maps he needed, and he spent a lot of time carefully plotting each piece of land involved and studying the topography, and his respect for the intelligence of Mags Bennett increased significantly in the process. Let Black Pike underestimate her to their own cost. Boyd had no intention of being on the wrong side of this discussion. Which meant figuring out how to be on the right side.

And the key to that—and an irony Boyd took some joy in—was a Givens. Helen Givens. Who owned an important parcel of land, and would never in a thousand years sell it to Mags Bennett. But she might be persuaded to sell to Boyd. More to the point, Arlo might be persuaded to sell to Boyd. And then Boyd would be in the perfect position to join up with Mags and help her make the killing she wanted out of the sale of her land.

Yes. All this, and mostly legal, too. The chance to make the Crowder name stand for shrewdness and intelligence, not for cruelty and illegality. The chance to make Ava see him as a man she could trust.

He was marking the maps as she came in behind him, and he couldn't wait to tell her all about it … but not too much. Not yet. Best to tell her when it was done, when he could show her that he was a man who accomplished what he set out to do.

"I figured it out," he told her now. "I know what Mags is up to."

"What would that be, exactly?"

He didn't answer, thinking ahead several steps to when and where the final meeting between Mags and Black Pike was likely to occur.

"I'm gonna need you to put on a dress."

Ava laughed, surprised. "Why?"

He smiled at her. "'Cause we're goin' to the Bennetts' party." He had half-expected her to follow him out of the room, still asking questions, but she didn't—and he took the memory of her bright, happy smile at the idea of going to the party with him as he went. "Somethin' pretty!" he called out to her. He couldn't wait to see her in it.

Left to herself in the kitchen, Ava looked at the maps spread out across her table, and pulled one toward her, frowning down at it, trying to see what Boyd had seen. Slowly it dawned on her, and she realized what he was trying to do—and couldn't help admitting to herself that it was exciting, putting one over on the big company and making some money in the process. Maybe she was more of a Crowder than she'd like to admit.


	32. Ready

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Ava stood in her closet in bra and panties, twitching hangers, dissatisfied with everything in her closet. Bowman had picked out a lot of the fancier stuff, which meant it was slutty and trashy and not who Ava wanted to be at all. Boyd wouldn't like her in any of this stuff, she was sure.

Not that it mattered what Boyd liked, she told herself sternly. Not at all. She was dressing up for herself, going out to the Bennetts' party to have fun. Boyd just happened to be the one she was going with. He wasn't her date, and there would be no hooking up, of any kind. She was determined about that.

She pulled out a pink dress with an A-line skirt. Pastel. Too babyish, she thought. And with its long sleeves and high neck, too prissy and Sunday school. Not right at all.

The next one was green, full skirt, a crinkly crepe fabric with a satin lining. Too fancy for a daytime party.

The denim skirt wasn't fancy enough, and the black skirt was too tight. You couldn't dance in it, not real country dancing. No, she needed something with a skirt that would move as she moved, which narrowed things down a bit.

Damn, maybe she should have gone shopping if she was going to get caught up in this nonsense about what to wear. Why didn't she just throw on something and be done with it?

"Ava, you about ready? I like to make an entrance, but we're edging past fashionably late here," Boyd called up the stairs.

"Gettin' there!" she called back. "Won't be a minute!"

Which was a lie, because she hated every single thing in her closet right now and wouldn't be caught dead wearing any of it.

She twitched a few more hangers along the pole, thinking she should really clean out her closet, do a good deep clean, get rid of all this junk and start over. You could get nice quality things at the consignment stores for not a lot of money.

That's when the color caught her eye. Red. Deep, rich red, somewhere between berry and wine scarlet. The skirt was plenty full enough to dance in, and the top was low cut enough to look pretty without being trashy. And red made a statement. It said 'look at me'. She wanted to be looked at, to have folks remember that before she was Ava Crowder, Bowman's little wife, she'd been Ava Randolph, and she'd been something to see.

In the back of her mind, she knew that really what she wanted was for Boyd to look at her, to see in his eyes that deep appreciation men kept for women they admired who had put forth the effort to look special for them. She wanted that badly, much as she shouldn't.

"Ava!"

"Yeah, I'm comin'."

She got dressed, adding a necklace that nestled right above her breasts and a little pair of earrings, and shoes meant for dancing, and hastily dumped everything from her everyday purse to a nicer little black one before leaving the room.

Boyd was waiting there at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her. The look in his eyes was everything she had hoped for, and for a moment they weren't Boyd Crowder the drug dealer's son and Ava Crowder, his abusive brother's widow. They were just two people who wanted to be with each other.

When he broke the look, Ava's heart pounded, and she was glad for the distraction of getting into the truck so she could remind herself of all the reasons why Boyd Crowder was all wrong for any woman, and especially for her.

* * *

Boyd waited patiently at the bottom of the stairs, knowing enough about women not to expect Ava to be down too quickly. He wondered what she would wear, how she would look.

Then he pulled his thoughts away from that admittedly fascinating subject, reminding himself that today was about business, about his deal with the Bennetts and putting one over on Black Pike Coal. He had to stay sharp, keep his mind on the deals at hand.

Of course, there would be dancing, too, later. After the deal was struck and he was victorious. Then he could allow himself to dance with Ava. He couldn't help thinking of the way her perfume smelled, of the scent of her wafting past his nose as she twirled and spun. Of the way her narrow waist would feel under his hands. She was so beautiful.

And she didn't want to be with him, and for good reason, Boyd told himself sternly. Damn good reason. The things his brother had put her through—he didn't know how she could ever look at him, or hear his voice, and not think of Bowman. For that matter, Boyd had said some pretty awful things to her over the years, and he wasn't sure if he could, or should, ever be forgiven for that.

But dear God, he would like to be.

To distract himself from imagining what it would be like to feel her melt against him, he looked at his watch. While he didn't want to rush Ava, he wanted to get there in time to make sure everything was in place.

"Ava, you about ready?" he called up the stairs. "I like to make an entrance, but we're edging past fashionably late here."

"Gettin' there! Won't be a minute!"

Boyd's experience in waiting for women to get ready was not vast—but she didn't sound like a woman who had decided on what to wear and was in the process of putting it on. She sounded distracted, like she was still studying on it.

What would it be? She looked good in just about everything, and she had an instinctive sense of style, so whatever she wore would look just right. Or maybe he thought that because in his eyes, Ava Crowder could do no wrong. Boyd could admit that to himself without shame. If a man had to put a woman on a pedestal, she might as well be the kind of woman Ava was—sweet and warm and feminine, yes, but tough as nails when you crossed her, and more than capable of taking care of herself, as he knew to his cost.

And here he was thinking about Ava again when he needed to be thinking about Mags Bennett and Carol Johnson and Black Pike Coal. Important business was afoot. Business that could set him up for life—him and Ava both, if she'd be persuaded to let him take care of her.

"Ava!" he called again.

"Yeah, I'm comin'," she answered. This time she sounded rushed, like she was in the middle of the process.

Boyd relaxed a bit, knowing they could get on the road soon. But his heart pounded thinking of her up there, putting her dress on, picking out earrings, stepping into her shoes. All the details of a woman getting dressed that you only saw if you were intimate with her, allowed inside her room and her heart.

Above him, at the top of the stairs, the door opened, and Ava appeared. Her dress was red, fitted, with a flaring, feminine skirt. She looked down at him, shy, as if she was wondering what he thought. As if she cared what he thought.

His heart thudded to a stop in his chest as he stared up at her. Was this possible? Could this be possible?

Well, if it could ever be, he would have to be prepared. He would have to be able to take care of her. Which meant putting this deal through.

With an effort, Boyd tore his gaze away from her. As they got into the truck together, he recognized a feeling inside himself that hadn't been there in a long time—hope.


	33. Rocking

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Ava was nervous arriving at the Bennetts'. Partly because she'd shot whatever weird pet Coover had kept in that bag and he might want revenge, partly because she looked nice and was hoping in equal degrees Boyd would and would not think it was for him, and partly because it had been such a long time since she'd been out. Maybe once business was settled there would be time to have fun and enjoy themselves.

The party hadn't quite started yet when they arrived, for all Boyd's twitching about the time. The band wasn't even playing yet. Ava was disappointed—she'd been ready to hear some music.

A man with a guitar in his hands met them before they could even get in the gate. Ava recognized him as the Bennett boy who acted like he'd gone straight, although no one quite believed it. The one who hadn't attacked Boyd in her house, so she'd be on her best behavior, for the moment.

"You lose your way, Crowder?" he asked. "Gets kinda tricky up in these hollers. I figure you must've took the wrong turn."

Boyd spoke soft and gentle, polite, but with an edge under it. "Well, I thought Mags extended that invitation to everybody. I just assumed that it was a plus one."

The Bennett boy looked puzzled, and Ava squashed her amusement at how Boyd's big words and mannerly way of speaking got folks all caught up in figuring out just what it is he had said and whether they'd been insulted. He finally worked his way through it and said slowly, "Well, y'all ain't invited. Gonna be a scene draggin' you out of here?"

Boyd looked at Ava, and Ava looked at Boyd. She didn't have any intention of being dragged anywhere, certainly not in this dress. But he was sure to have something up his sleeve. He always did.

Still in that soft voice, Boyd said, "Well, we ain't lookin' for trouble, Doyle. We're just lookin' to have a word."

"Well, I'm listenin'."

"With your mama," Boyd said, his voice just a little sharper. Ava marveled at how willing the Bennett boys were to stay under their mama's thumb. You'd have thought now they were grown men, they'd want to strike out on their own, but they each seemed gutless in their own special way.

Doyle held Boyd's gaze a moment, then said flatly, "Mags's busy."

"Well, we can wait."

"Boyd, y'all ain't welcome," Doyle repeated. "Now, you gon' bounce, one way or the other."

"Doyle, your mama needs to hear what I got to say. You think I'd come up in this holler otherwise?"

They looked at each other some more, but Ava knew how this one ended. Not a lot of men could hold their own with Boyd when he was determined. Raylan, Boyd's daddy, one or two others she'd met. Certainly not Bowman. Boyd would look him in the eye and Bowman would go off screaming and shooting things until eventually Boyd's stillness got him his way.

Doyle sure didn't have the backbone to stand up to Boyd. He tried to hide it with a final warning to them to wait where they were, but he wasn't fooling anybody.

When he was gone, Boyd turned to Ava. "You all right?"

She nodded, laughing a little. "Never been better." Funny, she hadn't been nervous when Doyle was facing off against Boyd, so sure Boyd would come out on top, but now she was.

"Ava?"

There was something warming in the way he was counting on her, but took the time to be worried about her, too. "I'm with you," she assured him.

"This is a picnic on a Sunday afternoon."

"Mhm. Wish I'd packed a basket."

They stood, waiting, looking around as the party was being set up. Maybe this was what Boyd had been in such a hurry about, Ava considered—getting here before things started so he had time to talk to Mags.

Doyle came back in just a few minutes, moving slowly through the crowd, stopping to talk to people, making sure it didn't look like he was in any hurry. "Mama'll see you."

"Ava." Boyd gestured for her to go on ahead.

"Just you," Doyle snapped.

"Now, surely you don't expect to leave a lovely lady like this one standing here on her own. No tellin' who she might run into in the process. I sure wouldn't like anything to happen to her."

Doyle clearly knew what Boyd was referring to and didn't like it at all. "Fine. She can set on the porch. No one'll come near her."

"That'll do nicely, won't it, Ava?"

Ava remembered to smile, although it was wasted on Doyle. She wondered if a lifetime with their mother had ruined all the Bennett boys for women. "Sounds fine, thank you."

Doyle led her to the porch and even dusted off the seat of a rocker for her. With a glance at Boyd, who gave her a reassuring smile before he was led inside, she took her seat. It was a comfortable rocker, and sitting here reminded her of her childhood, rocking on the porch while her mama cooked supper, lookin' out across the grass. The music started up, and that reminded her of her uncle Jeremiah and his banjo. All in all, it was a pretty nice way to spend part of an afternoon. As long as Boyd could talk sense into Mags Bennett, that was. If he couldn't … well, that didn't bear thinking about it. As far as Ava could see, Boyd could talk a chicken into crossing the road—and then back again.


	34. Mags

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Boyd's meeting with Mags had gone just as he had hoped it would. He hadn't put one over on her, but he didn't believe she had managed that feat on her side, either, so it appeared the deal was going to be mutually beneficial. He blessed the venality of Arlo Givens and the upright nature of Helen Givens, both impulses having worked together to put him in the position he was in right now … and to leave him some time free at the party with Ava before Carol Johnson arrived.

Johnson, when she showed up, had Raylan in tow, which Boyd took as a sign from the Almighty, if such a person existed, that he was on the right track. Poor Raylan, always trying to outrun who he was and always being drawn right back into the old ways of doing things. Boyd, on the other hand, was embracing the old ways but trying to create new ways from them, and it seemed to be working well so far. Johnson bought his claim that he had acquired the Givens land on her behalf hook, line, and sinker, and walked off looking like she owned the world.

As he continued filling his plate, Ava leaned over to him. "You sure you know what you're doing?"

"I'm makin' it up as I go, but I sure am happy you elected to come along." He stopped to look at her, so pretty and festive in her red dress. "Having a good time?"

She had to think about it. "Yes, I guess. I'll be happier when we get through that meeting."

"So will I. Still—might as well eat while the eating's good. The Bennetts do set a good table."

Ava agreed, and they found seats and dug into their overflowing plates.

It was entertaining to watch Johnson work her way slowly toward Mags, starting into the circle where Mags sat sipping apple pie and laughing with her cronies and then backing off, getting a little closer each time. Boyd believed Johnson had never before met with a situation like this one where her brash forwardness and cocky sense of her own importance had abandoned her quite so thoroughly. No doubt it was a good experience for her.

Doyle came over to Boyd, bending down to speak quietly in his ear. "Momma says it's time."

"Very well. Ava, if you'll excuse me?"

She was staring at Doyle coldly, and only broke the look to glance at Boyd. "Good luck."

"Thank you." He wished he could say something to her, but anything he might want to say was not for public ears … and would undoubtedly be premature. Boyd followed Doyle into the house, and was led into the parlor and shown a seat.

"Wait there. Don't … move. Or nothin'."

"I wouldn't dream of it." To prove his point, he leaned back and smiled, the picture of relaxation.

Doyle snorted and left him there.

Mags joined him in a few minutes. "Are you ready for this?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am."

"Uh-huh." She studied him as if he was some species of rattlesnake she had caught by the tail. "We'll see."

And they waited, in silence, until Johnson came in. Boyd's presence gave her pause, he could see. "What are you doin' here?"

"You don't mind if Boyd sits in on our little pow-wow, do you?"

Johnson did mind. She didn't understand why he was there, and she didn't like what she didn't understand—which was, at heart, the reason she was in the position she was in, although she didn't know it yet. She stared at Boyd. "You said you signed the Indian Line property, correct?"

"Well, that's the fact of it, yes."

"Well, then, you've done very well, and you can go," she said, in the tone one would use on a small child who was proving more intrusive than expected.

"Well, there's just one wrinkle to that." He really was going to enjoy this. "The lease rights to the Indian Line property now lie solely with me." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mags glance up at Johnson, waiting for her reaction with as much gleeful anticipation as his own. Johnson was silent, knocked for a loop. "Now, I hope you understand," Boyd said gently, "this is just business." She, too, had thought she had a serpent by the tail—but unlike Mags, she had been too confident in her grip.

Johnson laughed, as an alternative to the screaming and cussing she no doubt wanted to do. "And, uh, have you decided what you plan on doing with that property, Boyd?"

"Have a seat, Miss Johnson."

She sat. They all looked at each other for a moment, each waiting to see who would make the first move. Well … Johnson was waiting to see. Boyd and Mags both knew who it would be, and sure enough, Johnson was the first to lose patience. "You want to cut to the chase, fine, here it is. Black Pike Mining is prepared to offer you a cash buyout." She took a piece of paper out of her pocket, reaching across the table for a pen. "In the sum … May I?" She held the pen up for Mags, who shrugged and gestured for her to go ahead. "I am writing here."

She slid the paper across the table to Mags, clicking the pen closed and putting it down on the table.

Mags moved for the first time since the meeting began, picking up the paper and turning it over to look at it. Then she sat back, rubbing her nose. "My word."

"Yes. You can see by that number that we're serious." Johnson expected the big numbers to bowl over the poor hicks, you could tell. "This is a one-time-only, non-negotiable deal. You take it, we shake, we're done, and I never darken your door again. You say no, you play games, you stall, I walk out and it goes to the lawyers. Do we have an agreement?" She spoke like a woman who believed she held all the cards in the game.

Mags looked at the paper in her hand, back at Johnson, and leaned forward to put the paper on the table. "No, Miss Johnson, I don't believe we do."

"Well, then, I got nothing else to say." Johnson got to her feet.

"You don't want to hear my counter offer?"

"There is no counter offer. It's this, or we go with eminent domain. Your family's history? Getting this property seized is an inevitability."

Oh, Johnson. So sure of herself, and so outclassed.

"You wouldn't be the first who tried, missy thing," Mags told her. "Now sit your bony ass down and listen to my counter offer while there's still pieces of you big enough to find."

Boyd allowed himself a small smile. There really was no one quite like Mags Bennett.

Johnson could see it, too. She sat, as directed.

"I will accept a payout from Black Pike for easements on my mountain. I believe we can settle for, say …" She reached for the paper again. "Triple the amount scratched on this piece of parchment."

Johnson laughed.

"I'm not finished. We will also take a four percent stake in the company. Not Black Pike, lest they pack up, declare bankruptcy, and disappear with what's comin' to me. No, I want a piece of the company that owns Black Pike." Mags shifted the ratty squirrel scarf around her neck. "A legacy deal. Sufficient to provide for my kin and this community for generations to come. Short of that …" She looked Johnson in the eye. "We got nothin' to talk about."

Johnson still thought she was on top. Even now, she didn't seem to feel the earth shifting beneath her feet. "Oh, Mags, you haven't done your homework. The properties you're holding out are worthless for coal. Parking lots and hillsides. Why in God's name would my company agree to that deal?"

This was Boyd's cue. He was both surprised and disappointed in Johnson that she had let herself be used as a negotiating tool without being fully informed of what she was trying to procure. "It's not about the coal, Miss Johnson," he explained. "It never was."

"Then what?"

"Look at a map, honey. State roads can't carry coal trucks up that mountain. No way to get 'em there. You want the riches atop this piece of Appalachia, you're gonna have to build your own road. And the road you need to build runs through the properties I hold." Mags smiled, enjoying the lesson she was teaching this uppity woman who had dared to walk into her house and underestimate her.

Johnson froze. She got it now. She saw what she had been too blind, too hasty, too cocksure to see before.

"So," Mags continued, "Boyd here sussed it out, looked at the pinch points for gradin' a lane wide enough for your trucks. He come to me and we worked out a little deal of our own."

"The Indian Line property owned by Helen and Arlo Givens is the last parcel. I was able to convince them to put their trust in me." He only regretted that Johnson hadn't brought Raylan into the meeting. He would have enjoyed seeing his old friend's face right now.

"Without that property, without them, without me, there is no Green Mountain project. Nor will there ever be. Black Pike will cut its losses and move on to the next hill with empty hands." Mags waited, but Johnson didn't speak. She couldn't. Mags started laughing. "Oh, sugar. They didn't tell you that, did they? Sent you in blind to close the deal without ever cluin' you in on the particulars." It could have been a moment of solidarity between two women, both of whom had been underestimated by men at one time or another. But it wasn't. "Funny way to run a business," Mags added, as if she didn't keep her lieutenants as in the dark as Johnson's superiors had kept her. "But then … you pick the devil you run with."

"I have to make a call," Johnson said, doing a good job of holding herself together in the face of the way she had just been completely outplayed.

"Oh, go ahead, honey. Go, go, yeah. We'll be right here waitin'." The door closed behind Johnson and Mags settled more comfortably back in her chair, only the glance at Boyd and the faint smile on her face showing how hugely she had enjoyed that.

It wasn't long at all before Johnson came back into the room, just as Boyd had poured himself and Mags both a drink and handed Mags hers.

"Well, Mags, I spoke to my people, and you've got yourself a deal."

"I expected I might."

"I've worked with Black Pike for four years. Six years before that with Henley Coal, and never, in all that time, have I seen a company lay down the way they have here."

Mags was beaming, taking the implied praise and the altered tone of respect Johnson was using as her just due, as it was. Boyd didn't mind—even though he had been the one to bring the information to Mags, they were her properties, and it was the force of her character that had backed Johnson into a corner.

"I call it a blessing," Mags said. "A chance to learn new things in this tired old world."

"And all that talk at the meeting, the whole town looking at you as if you're the protector of all that's green and holy in Bennett … They're gonna blow a thousand feet off the top of that mountain, spill it into your creeks, wipe out homesteads …"

"My people have been here for two hundred years, Miss Johnson, and we will be here once your people have come in and taken what they want and left."

"And everyone else? You just … sell 'em out."

"Nothin' changes up here, not really. I've seen the story played out time and time again before as it'll happen again in times yet to come." Mags lifted her glass. "I'll take the cash up front. Delivered tomorrow morning, first thing."

Johnson gave a little smile, and Mags put her glass down, holding out her hand.

"You want to shake on it? Up here that kind of agreement's just as bindin' as they come."

"You'll hear from our attorneys." Johnson crossed her arms over her chest as an unsubtle signal of how much she did not want to shake on it. She looked at Boyd with the eyes of betrayal. "They'll work out the details." And she was gone.

"Been a pleasure doing business with you, Carol," Mags called after her. "If you're ever up this way …"

When the door had closed, Mags looked at Boyd. "You done good, Boyd."

"I did what was comin', that's all." He reached for his as yet untouched glass and took a swallow.

"Crowders. Always lookin' for an angle."

"Is there anything else, Mags?"

"How the hell'd you ever get Arlo to come over to you?"

"Mr. Givens can be very practical when it comes to matters that suit him."

"Yeah, well … whatever you promised him." Mags smiled. They were of a kind, he and she. "Whatever you decide to do—take over your daddy's affairs, go your own way, whatever … The county is yours, far as I'm concerned. Got my family out o' all that now. One thing?" The smile faded. "Stay out of the weed business. Bennett territory. Always has been, always will be."

Boyd stood, offering her his hand. Surprised, she took it, and they shook … and Boyd Crowder was on his way. Where, he wasn't yet certain, but he had bought a future for himself—and for Ava, if she would accept it.


	35. Dance

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

It had been a hell of a long day, and it was only the middle of the afternoon. Ava fidgeted through the party, smiling awkwardly at a bunch of folks who were obviously wondering what she was doing there, making the occasional bit of small talk with someone who wasn't too high and mighty to speak to a Crowder, even a Crowder by marriage, and waiting, waiting, waiting for Boyd. She'd seen the red-headed woman from the coal company go in—and been amused watching her put Raylan in his place, literally, by stationing him in a rocking chair on the porch.

Raylan had gotten his bit of entertainment for the day by kicking Dickie Bennett out of his momma's house. Did he ever feel bad about what he'd done to Dickie? Ava wondered, watching Dickie limp away. It was hard to imagine Raylan ever feeling bad about anything.

She was staying out of Raylan's line of sight as much as she could—the last thing she needed or wanted in her day was him thinking he had the right to make comments about her being here with Boyd. It was none of his business where she went or with whom, and he'd made that almighty clear … except when he wanted to poison her mind against Boyd.

Not that he wasn't right to warn her, Ava thought, leaning against a fence rail and looking across the fields to the forest in the distance. Boyd was a snake. Charming, yes, but a snake. Always had been. And what did you get when you had a snake by the tail? You got bitten. Ava didn't want to get bitten, she reminded herself. But she sure was holding onto the snake, though, wasn't she?

Boyd had changed over the course of this past year—the religious fit, the loss of the men who had followed him, the death of his father, his time in the mines trying to go straight. But he couldn't go straight any more than a snake could grow legs and walk. He'd tried hard, but it had drained him of everything that made him Boyd. There had been a quiet suffering, a submission, in his face, that was gone now. Now he was confident, sure of what he was doing, and he carried a leashed excitement in himself that Ava couldn't help responding to. She, too, had been trying to go straight, trying to start a different life and be a different person, but she was Ava Randolph, and the Randolphs had had their fair share of brushes with the law. Maybe they saw something in each other, she and Boyd, that no one else could see.

Eventually, bored and tired of waiting and nervous that everything Boyd had planned was falling through, Ava took a seat and a glass of the homemade apple pie whiskey Mags Bennett was so famous for, and she tried to be patient. She never had been patient, and she didn't like it now. Whatever was to come, whatever would happen between herself and Boyd, in this deal and however else things were to be between them, she wanted to be a partner. Not a sitter and waiter. She wanted to stand beside him and be in on things with him and be … vital. Necessary. She never had been necessary to any man, and she wanted to see how that would feel.

Finally—finally—she saw him. He was making his way through the crowd straight for her, and he was walking like a man who had won the day.

"Is that it?" she asked him as he got close enough to hear her.

"That's it." There was a hint of a smile on his face.

"So we go now?"

"Ava." He leaned over her and captured both of her hands in his.

"What?"

"Let's dance." Boyd led her by the hand to the dance floor. "Right now."

And they danced. Ava hadn't danced in—well, she couldn't rightly remember how long, and she didn't want to, because she was having too much fun. Boyd might not be able to sing a note, but he sure could move to the music. And Ava was moving her feet and her skirt was swinging and her hair was fanning over her shoulders and Boyd was smiling at her and she was having all kinds of fun.

For a moment like this, maybe some of the other stuff was worth it. Maybe the other side of Boyd was worth learning to deal with if this side of him could make her feel so light and young and happy. Or maybe right now was all that mattered.


	36. Confusion

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

They danced until Ava couldn't stand on her high heels any longer. Despite the soreness in her feet, she couldn't remember the last time she'd enjoyed herself so much, felt so free and light and young.

Boyd felt it, too, she could see. His smile transformed his face, his white teeth shining as he laughed aloud. They fit together so well, moving in the same steps without thinking about it, even though they'd never danced together before. Ava hadn't danced since … maybe not since her wedding. Bowman wasn't much for dancing. He was more one for sitting and brooding and glaring at her if she got up to dance with anyone else, and punishing her for it when they got home.

At last she had realized that Boyd wasn't his brother. Or his father. He was smarter, for one thing, and gentler, for all that he was ruthless and not a man you wanted to cross. But when Boyd was dangerous, it was because he wanted something from someone. He didn't enjoy causing pain for its own sake the way his brother had. She could be safe with Boyd. She could trust him.

It was with this new knowledge that she watched him make the rounds, charming as always, his easy courtesy standing him in good stead even with those who didn't trust him because he was a Crowder. Ava cradled a glass of Mrs. Bennett's apple pie in her hands, the occasional sip warming her all through.

Boyd made his way back to her, hunkering down next to her chair. "You ready to go?"

"I am." Ava held out a foot. "I don't think I'd better dance any more on these shoes."

"They're mighty pretty, but I'd think they'd have to hurt after a while." He got to his feet and held out a hand to her. "Let's get you in the truck where you can take your shoes off."

"That sounds heavenly." Ava left her hand in his, wondering if he would notice. Wondering if he would know what that meant.

Wondering if she knew what that meant. Just what did she want, anyway? An affair? A relationship? After all that was between them, all their history, it would never be a question of just one night. Was she ready for that? Without meaning to, she pictured Raylan, the look in his eyes when he found out she was with Boyd. Would he be jealous, or just angry? She was done with possessive men, men who didn't want her for herself but for what she meant to them. If she was going to be with Boyd, she wanted him to be sure of her, so sure that there was no need for jealousy or threat.

Boyd opened the car door for her, helping her up. Ava leaned forward and unstrapped her shoes first thing, kicking them off with a sigh of relief. She settled back into the seat, arranging her skirt around her, only then realizing that Boyd was watching her, the key poised in the ignition.

"All set?" he asked. In the darkness of the cab, she couldn't see the expression in his eyes or read his face, so she didn't know if he wanted what she wanted. Or if she wanted what she thought she wanted.

It seemed as though he was leaning toward her, just a little, and Ava couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like if he kissed her right now, his lips warm on hers, lingering, waiting for her response.

"Ava?"

She realized that her eyes were half-closed, waiting for that imagined kiss. But if Boyd had been leaning in her direction before, he wasn't now.

"I'm ready. Let's go home."

Neither of them acknowledged anything unusual in her referring to her house as their mutual home. Boyd seemed distracted as he put the car in gear and leaned over the back seat to navigate the crowded yard, filled with cars and trucks, the party slowly winding down as they drove away. Ava leaned back against the seat, looking out the window at the darkness, content for the moment, waiting for Boyd to make the first move. She knew he wanted to. All she had to do was wait, and she could let herself go, let herself want again. It had been too long.

* * *

Boyd navigated the dark roads skillfully, only half his mind on his driving, The rest of his mind was on the beautiful woman at his side. Ava was resting her head against the window, so quiet that he wondered if she had fallen asleep.

He was glad she wasn't in the mood to talk. He wanted to think, and it would have been hard to talk to her without mentioning the topic that was ever more the focus of his thoughts: his feelings for her. It would have seemed like a good time to broach the subject, right now while he was riding a high from the day's events having unfolded exactly as he predicted, his future stretching out in front of him seeming secure. He could provide for her now, take care of her as she deserved to be taken care of. No longer would he be the freeloader at her table, taking her hospitality in return for the pittance of rent she had charged him.

But did he have any right to do that? She had laid out one rule when she allowed him into her home—no criminal activity. And Boyd had just committed himself to his Daddy's course. He had submitted to his own destiny as a Crowder, to his undeniable skills in the evasion of the law and in criminal enterprise. What right did he have to offer Ava anything, to take from her anything, even the kiss she had so unconsciously offered him when they got in the truck? He had broken the single rule that was the basis of his safe harbor in her home.

No, that dream was over. It had died when he had proven himself unable to resist the siren call of even Kyle's half-baked plan; he just hadn't known it until right now.

Boyd assumed from her steady, even breathing that she truly had fallen asleep now, and he tried not to imagine her sleeping against his shoulder where he could rest his cheek against her hair, the scent of her strawberry shampoo like summer all around him.

* * *

At the house, she stirred awake while he came around to open her door for her. Spying her shoes on the floor, he reached in for her, lifting her in his arms, allowing himself this single indulgence before he had to give her up.

"Boyd!" Ava protested, but she was laughing as she said it.

"Can't have you spoiling your stockings." Boyd was smiling down at her, but something was missing from the smile. The man on top of the world who had danced with her all evening was faded, like a cloud had come in front of the sun. Ava wondered what had changed on the drive down the mountain, and wished she had stayed awake to talk to him instead of falling asleep.

He set her down on the porch. When Ava would have reached for him, instinctively, he told her to wait there, and returned to the truck for her shoes, handing them to her.

"Boyd …"

"Ava." He gestured at the door.

Confused, Ava turned and unlocked it, standing in the doorway while he went by. For a moment, he paused and they looked at each other, so close she could feel his breath on her lips. His eyes darkened, looking at her mouth, and she was sure, so sure. Sure enough that her own eyes began to close in anticipation.

Then he had pushed past her. "Good-night, Ava. And thank you," he said softly, and she heard his quiet footsteps up the stairs.

That night, they both lay awake for a long time, staring up at the ceiling and wrestling with their own confusion.


	37. Emptiness

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Boyd awoke with the birds the next morning. Truth be told, he awoke before the birds, but he was cautious about moving around, not wanting to wake Ava, not wanting her to come into the room before he finished his task. It didn't take him long—he hadn't brought very much with him to Ava's, and he had not accumulated much during his stay. He would be leaving his heart behind, as well, but it had never weighed much to begin with. He hadn't particularly noticed he had it until he had given it to her.

She slept late, and he was glad of it. It gave him time to center himself, to dress and go downstairs and make himself some toast and try to determine what to say.

He still hadn't found the right words—a rarity for him—when he heard her moving around upstairs. When she entered the kitchen, she was still shrugging on her robe, a pretty pink confection over a fairly brief and soft-looking nightgown.

Boyd looked at her over his shoulder as she came into the room, but he didn't say anything. Not about how beautiful she looked still faintly tousled from sleep or how much he wished he could stay and how sure he was that he had to go. He didn't want to have the last part of the conversation, and he didn't deserve to have the first part.

"I was gonna make some eggs," Ava said in apology.

"I'm fine."

She reached for the skillet and went to the refrigerator for the eggs, looking with scorn at the toast on his plate. "That won't fill you up."

"No, I'm fine," he said again. If she started taking care of him, if she showed signs that she wanted him to stay, it would be so much harder. He would have left already if it wouldn't have been incredibly rude to disappear without a word.

Ava put the eggs on the counter. Without looking at him, she asked, "You're not gonna sit with me and have one last meal?"

Boyd didn't answer. She knew already, which was not what he had intended, but he wanted to hear her reaction before he spoke.

She did turn now, and it was clear she was irritated. "I saw your bags packed in your room." She held his gaze, clearly waiting for an explanation, but for once, Boyd Crowder was speechless.

Ava turned back to the eggs, and Boyd put down his knife, leaving his toast half-buttered. He didn't really want it now, anyway.

He got to his feet. "Ava, I have to leave. I'm embarkin' upon a journey that I can't rightly ask you to be a part of." She had been clear about this. She had been so clear. No criminal activity. He was fortunate, endlessly grateful, that she had accepted everything he had done up until now, but he was preparing to go further, much further, and that was beyond what he could expect her to overlook.

She put the bowl of eggs down on the counter with a thump and turned to him. "How do you know?"

"'Cause when you took me in, you made it clear that you would not tolerate any criminal activity."

"How hard did I enforce that law, Boyd?" She came toward him, and Boyd resisted the twin urges to back away and to pull her closer. "I lied for you, takin' that minin' money."

"This is different, Ava," he said softly. Some lines she didn't need to cross. He wouldn't let her. Not for him.

"Guess me takin' you in, and buildin' you up, was a mistake. Just set you back to square one."

It was evident she didn't understand what he was doing, or why, or how hard it was for him. He was glad of that, but hurt, as well. He would have liked, just once, to tell her what she had meant to him, what she still meant to him, just so she would know—but he couldn't burden her that way. At least maybe he could make it clear what it had been to have this refuge, this safe haven to find himself again.

"That's not true. You took me in and you healed me, Ava. You gave me a reason to wake up in the mornin'. For that I'll be eternally grateful."

He failed. His words weren't enough, not enough to make her understand even a fraction of the enormity of what he felt.

Without a change in expression, she said, quietly but firmly, "Get out."

It hadn't been the reaction he had expected, certainly not what he had wanted—but as a means of ensuring that she would not be carrying their time together heavy on her heart, it worked well enough. Better that she be angry with him, better that she think him ungrateful, than that he be the means of causing her any more hurt or anguish through her association with his family.

Without another word, he turned and left the room. His bags were ready upstairs in his room, and he carried them down the stairs. She was still standing there, leaning against the sink, smoking a cigarette as he walked past, and he hesitated, a mere hitch in his stride, wanting to say one last thing, to try again to thank her as she deserved to be thanked for what she had been to him—but it was done, now. Prolonging it would only end in hurt and anger on both sides.

He would do what he had set out to do, leave her in peace, no matter how many pieces it broke his heart into.

Ava watched him go, looking through the kitchen window until his truck was gone, trying to hold on to the anger that had filled her when she saw his bags packed, but with Boyd gone, all she felt was emptiness. No one to cook for, no one to talk to, no glimpse of Boyd's smile or sound of his soft voice, nothing ahead of her but open space. Once that would have thrilled her, been just what she wanted, but now … Now she would have traded it all to have Boyd sitting at her table again, eating the eggs she had cooked for him.


	38. Different

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

In the small hours of the morning after he had decided once and for all that he had no choice but to remove himself from Ava's side and from her home entirely, Boyd had formulated his plan. Now—a bit more hastily than he had hoped, now that she had told him to get out in no uncertain terms—he set about putting his plan in motion.

First, the toughest nut to crack. The other surviving Crowder. His cousin Johnny.

Bo's shotgun blast had left Johnny stranded in a wheelchair, and angry about it. Johnny had always been an angry man, but now there was a fire in his gut. For all that he was stranded here in a squalid and dingy cabin, trapped in a chair for the rest of his life, he wanted to prove that he was still a man, still a Crowder, still a valuable asset to any team. And all Boyd had to do was convince his cousin that he believed in him … But convincing Johnny that Boyd had only his best interests in mind would be a tough sell, since in Boyd's memory, that had never been true a single time.

He opted for the sincere approach, sitting down across from his cousin, eyes on the floor to avoid the blaze of those dark burning eyes, and laying it out like it was.

"You may be wonderin' why I came to call today—"

"Haven't seen you around here before, _cousin_."

"No, that's true. There are wounds to the body, and there are wounds to the soul. And it is to my everlasting shame that I allowed the wounds to my soul to keep me under for so long, to keep me from fulfilling my familial obligations." He took a deep breath. "You know, I've rehearsed these words in my head a thousand times, but sittin' with you now, all my words are gone. I've been doin' a lot of thinkin' about Daddy. He was a hard man, with large appetites and few graces. And I spent my whole life tryin' to be a different kind of man. Lookin' back on it, I can see how he made it possible for us to grow up in a world without want. Or hunger. He helped those in need, and tried to bring a little order to our corner of the world. I guess I understand, finally, what he tried imperfectly to do. And I see value in that. Maybe that's why I haven't come to you until now. I owe you an apology, a deep apology. I've just been tryin' to find my way in the world, and while my intentions were good, people got hurt. People died."

Johnny glared at him. "Well, too bad for me I wasn't one of them. Would you like to see the bag I have to wear to piss and shit in? But if it helps you 'find your way in the world', Boyd, well,then I guess it's worth it. I'll think about your way every time I empty it." He put a cigarette between his lips. "Reach me my lighter."

Boyd did so, lighting the cigarette for his cousin. "It's not just about me, Johnny."

"It's always about you, Boyd."

Retaking his seat, Boyd said, "But I'm a different man now. I understand that you and me, we are one blood."

"Well, yeah. Is that right? Well, I'll tell you what." Johnny pushed himself with some difficulty up and out of the chair. "Why don't you go on out there and you get yourself cut in half by a shotgun blast, and stuck back together." He limped painfully to the refrigerator for a beer. "And then you can come back here and we can talk about being one blood, cousin." He leaned against the table, trying not to show how winded the movement had made him, before shuffling back to the wheelchair again. "Yeah," he said, gesturing to his legs. "They still work. For shit, but they work." Sinking in the chair, he grinned sardonically at Boyd. "What'd you think you performed a miracle on me?"

"I don't believe in miracles anymore."

"Well, that is somethin' anyway." Taking a slug of the beer, Johnny added in a softer tone, "I do appreciate the money that you sent. Beer ain't free." He was getting emotional, Boyd could tell, and Johnny had never liked emotions. "We about done here now?"

Boyd eased himself to his knees in front of his cousin. "I need you, Johnny."

"For what?"

"To do what my Daddy only dreamed of: bring Harlan County back under Crowder control. Now, that's not gon' be easy, and it's not gonna happen overnight, but it is gon' happen. You and me, we're gonna do it."

"What the hell use am I gonna be?"

"Johnny. I know you think that you are a broken man, but from where I sit, I see things different."

"Don't sell me, Boyd. I don't want to hear it."

"I'm not sellin' you! Now, Daddy did all his business out of the back of that bar, and you know what he did right, and what he did wrong better than any man alive."

There was a dawning hope in Johnny's eyes, but Boyd had played him too many times in the past for it to go easy. "What the hell makes you think, after all I been through, that I would lift a goddamned finger to help you?"

Boyd got to his feet. "Because you're a Crowder. It's in your blood."

Johnny snorted a laugh. "You are as full of shit as ever, cousin. Lucky for you, I am bored stiff sittin' in this chair." He waved a finger up at Boyd. "But if you try to screw me over, they won't find all the pieces of you. I may be a pathetic cripple, but I ain't a pushover."

"I never thought you were. So, we have an accord?"

"We got a deal, anyway." Johnny pushed himself slowly to his feet, and solemnly, they shook on it. "Where we start?"

"You take a shower, my friend. Then we get you cleaned up, and after that—we retake our bar."

And it went just that way. The two of them together. They picked up Devil at the big poker game, walking out with a whole lot of money in the bargain, and they made their plans. Boyd felt on top of the world … except for the deep hurt in his heart at the way he had left Ava, and the longing for her that he just couldn't seem to put aside.

* * *

Ava let herself in the door. Her house was silent. Utterly still. She was the only one who lived in it now.

Once, she had dreamed of this, the whole house all to herself, but now … she missed the heavy tread of Boyd's boots on the stairs, and the soft strains of his weird music coming down from his room, and the measured and careful tones of his voice.

The only thing more surprising to her than the way he had packed up and left without a word this morning was how much it had hurt to see him go. Damn it, she had gone and fallen in love with another Crowder. This one the worst one of all, because of his gentleness and his consideration. Yesterday at the Bennetts' party, she had felt so special and so pretty because of his eyes on her. She had been sure he felt it, too, the admiration in her look, the way she had studied his eyes and his smile and the way he moved, the way she had found herself wanting things she had told herself she would never want in a million years.

At the top of the stairs, instead of turning toward her own room, she went into his, finding his blankets neatly folded on the bare mattress, and the book he had been reading lying on top of them. What had she thought, that maybe he had brought his things back while she'd been gone, that maybe he was waiting to apologize, to explain, to take her in his arms?

What kind of weak woman was she turning into, anyway? she thought in annoyance. But instead of leaving the room, she sat down on a box near the door and … waited. For what, she didn't know. For the coming of night, for the dawn of a new day, for her heart to let go of this deep longing for a man who wasn't coming back.


	39. Safe

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

All the plots and the schemes, all Boyd's plans for the future, weren't enough. Without Ava, without her smile and her sharp intelligence listening to him and the smell of her perfume making him feel alive, what did it matter if he took over Harlan County? An empty accomplishment, chaff in the wind.

Boyd sat at the table in the bar with Johnny and Devil, both of them deep into their cups, and considered trying to sleep later in Johnny's noisy cabin, on a rickety cot set up in the back room, trying to ignore the sounds of Johnny coughing and rolling his wheelchair into the kitchen to get another beer. He leaned back in his chair and gave some serious thought to where he was going to live from now on … but all he could think of was Ava. How safe he had felt, how much at home in a deep and abiding way he could rarely remember feeling since he was a small child, lying in bed there and knowing she was in the house with him. She had a knack for making a house feel like a home, for making a man feel noticed and taken care of and … liked. Yes, by the end she had liked him. Other things, yes, but the miracle of Ava Crowder liking him, Boyd Crowder, enjoying his company and wanting to talk to him and taking him seriously as a man, not afraid of him or disgusted by him—that was the genuine article. He had told Johnny today he didn't believe in miracles, but he did, because he had experienced one.

With a frustrated sigh, he set his glass down on the table. "You two about done for tonight?"

"Got to make plans," Devil said slowly, but the drink had dulled his wits as well as his speech.

"You had enough already, Boyd?" Johnny was still sharp enough.

"No. Just … I have somewhere I need to be, is all."

Johnny lifted an eyebrow, but something in Boyd's face must have told him he was approaching a sore subject, and he desisted. Boyd helped them both to the truck and left them at Johnny's, raiding the icebox for the last cans of beer.

The fresh night air from the open window felt good on his face, cooling him down and clearing his head. He would drive there. Just drive there. Just … stand outside and be near her. He wouldn't go in or disturb her—he owed her more than that. But breathing the same air as she did, once more … surely that was allowed, just this one last time.

* * *

The day had been long. Lonely and empty and endless. Another one tomorrow seemed like the same thing over again. Ava had cooked, for herself, never as satisfying, and cleaned up, and scrubbed her stove and her sink, and reorganized her spice rack and then put it back again, and the hours still stretched out in front of her.

She knew she wouldn't sleep if she went to bed, that she would lie there thinking of Boyd, and of Raylan and Bowman and back again to Boyd. So instead she slipped on a jacket and went out into the chill night, walking out into the darkness where the light from the house wouldn't get in the way of the stars. Each star stood out in the sky like it had been hung there special, winking down at her. She wanted to wish on them, but she was embarrassed even to tell the stars what she wished for, because she had been so wrong.

Or had she? Because when she turned around, there, parked in front of her house, was a very familiar truck. And a familiar man leaned against it, looking up at her windows. Why was he here, if not for her? If not because he wanted what she wanted? Well, she was damn sure going to find out.

Moving nice and slow and easy, she crossed around the back of his truck , pretty proud of herself that she had come right up behind him and he hadn't noticed. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded loud in the quiet of the night. "Mr. Crowder."

* * *

Startled, Boyd turned to find her behind him. Was she angry? In some places and times, this would have been construed as stalking, and he would have found himself looking the business end of her shotgun in the eye. But there was no shotgun in her hands now as she stood there waiting for him to explain himself.

"Beautiful night," he said, knowing the words were inadequate as he spoke them.

"I thought so. Came out to see the stars."

Boyd moved toward her, drawn by the light of her, more beautiful than any star. "I guess it must be mighty confusin', me bein' here? Truth be told, I had to see you one more time, even if it was from a distance."

Usually, Ava found the way he spoke beautiful, musical and haunting and compelling, but she didn't want any more words. Not tonight. Not when he was here, where she wanted him. She leaned up and kissed him, his lips firm and warm beneath hers. And then she kissed him again, in case he hadn't gotten the message the first time.

Delight dawning in his heart, Boyd kissed her back, sliding his hands around her waist to hold her there just in case she might slip away. Ava's hands moved up around his neck, her fingers in his hair as they kissed.

With a sense of relief, of home-coming, he gathered her in his arms and held her close. Ava closed her eyes and leaned into him and just breathed, feeling safe at last.


	40. Right

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

They moved slowly inside, a few steps here, stopping for a kiss, or to hold each other, smiling at each other like two kids on their first carnival ride. Neither one of them felt any particular need to hurry—they were together now, they both wanted the same thing, and everything else could come in its own good time.

Ava closed the door behind him and went around the house turning off the lights. Slowly, looking at him as she flicked each switch, wanting him to know where this was leading.

Boyd knew. The knowledge, the feeling of her wanting him, was already pounding in his head and he was trying to get used to the idea, the knowledge that something he had thought impossible was coming true.

At last she came to him in the darkness, dropping her coat on the floor even as she reached for the buttons on his, pushing it off his shoulders and letting it fall on top of hers.

"Ava. Are you certain that this is what you want?"

For answer, she pulled his head down to hers and kissed him. This time there was urgency in it, heat and hunger that would no longer be denied, and Boyd lost himself in the return of the kiss, the taste of her mouth, the scent of her perfume.

Ava broke the kiss, reaching for his hand, pulling him upstairs. She had tried not to dream about this, tried not to imagine what it would be like, but she had never entirely been able to put the idea out of her mind. There was a deep ache inside her already, an anticipation of what was to come, as she brought him into her bedroom and shut the door behind them. Not that the door needed to be closed, but it meant something, to be together behind a closed door. It meant him, and her, and no one else—everything else outside them, away from them.

She sat down on the bed and unlaced her shoes, taking them off and tucking them under the bed. Boyd hadn't moved. He was standing against the door and watching her. Ava patted the bed next to her, and he started to take a step, then thought better of it. "Ava, this is … I can't do this."

"I bet you can." She started on the buttons of her shirt.

"No, I mean … I … There is nothing I want more than this, but my feet are on a path you rightly chose not to walk. I cannot ask you to take this journey with me, and if I continue what we've started here, I won't want to stop."

"I never said you should." Ava peeled the shirt off and reached for the hem of the T-shirt she wore under it.

"But you said you didn't wish to be involved with … criminal activity."

"I said that. And I meant it at the time. But now—" Ava dropped the T-shirt on the floor and looked up at him, wanting him to understand how things had changed. "This house is cold and empty without you, Boyd." She meant more than just the house. Standing up, she began unbuttoning her jeans. Boyd's eyes followed every move of her fingers.

"The cost, Ava. The cost."

"I get it. If I want you, then I have to take the rest. And—I want you." She pushed her jeans down and stepped out of them, standing in front of him in only bra and panties. "You want to see how much?"

His eyes were heavy-lidded, his mouth open as if he was having trouble breathing. "My God, yes."

She unfastened her bra and let it fall. "Then come over here."

"Ava." Then he was holding her, kissing her again, his hands roaming over her bare back and cupping her rear through the thin fabric of the panties. He was hard against her, and Ava pressed herself closer even as her fingers were moving between them to unbutton his shirt.

It took longer than she wanted to remove all his layers and be standing there, skin to skin, so warm, exchanging kisses on neck and shoulders and chest, hands exploring. Ava broke away, not sure how much more she could take, peeling off her panties and lying down on the bed, with a pointed look at his jeans, which had to be getting mighty uncomfortable about now.

The haste with which he removed the rest of his clothes said she had been compeletely right, and then he was on the bed with her, kissing her again even as they shifted together, delighting in the friction and the closeness.

Ava reached into her drawer for protection, and closed her eyes while he touched her, making sure she was ready. A brief caress said he was more than ready himself. When they were joined at last they lay together for a moment, just enjoying the feeling, looking at each other. He kissed her again as he began to move, and it was—just right. It felt as though everything in her life had been leading her here, to this moment, with this man.

When it was over, when their heartrates had slowed and their bodies had cooled, he held her close, his fingers gentle in her hair. "Ava, Ava, Ava. To think I have gone all my life and never known what this felt like."

She didn't need to ask what he meant. She knew. She felt it, too.

"I never want this to end."

"Doesn't have to."

"You don't have to be involved in anything that makes you uncomfortable. I promise you that. I will shield you from as much as I can," he said, kissing her temple and her cheek and just under her ear.

Something about that felt strange to Ava. It was the way things had been with Bowman, but she had never expected things to be that way with Boyd. She had imagined herself as more of a partner. But tonight—tonight she had what she had wanted all this time. He was with her now, hers to care for. There was plenty of time to decide how she wanted to handle the rest of it. For now—now she would sleep, safe and warm with Boyd's arms around her.


	41. Serious

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

It was strange to waking in the morning with a man in her bed again … but amazing, too. Ava felt so good, so beautiful and loved. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt like this. Maybe she never had. Certainly she had never understood or cared for a man she had taken to bed the way she did Boyd. Before—always before it had been about what she needed from the man. But with Boyd, she knew how much he needed her, what she could be to him, and that made all the difference.

"That's a beautiful smile," he said softly, and she couldn't help a gasp of surprise. She hadn't known he was awake. "What are you thinking about this mornin' that's made you smile like that?"

"Bacon and eggs."

"Bacon and eggs? Well, I see. Fortunate breakfast foods, to earn such a smile." His answering smile said he knew what she wasn't saying—what she was strangely too shy to say. "Ava."

"Mm-hm?" He sounded serious, and she wanted and didn't want to hear what he would stay.

"Last night was … Nothing in my life has been as fine an experience. But I do understand if you would rather make this a casual arrangement. What lies ahead of me is—"

She was galvanized into speech, having thought they had settled this last night. "I told you I don't care about that. I want you with me, Boyd. Here. In this house. I … don't want to sleep alone again."

Boyd shifted so that she lay on top of him, his hands gentle in her hair as he reached up to kiss her. "That's what I want, too," he whispered.

"Good. I know what I said before, Boyd." She kissed him again, then slid down to kiss his shoulder and his collarbone. "But I want to be part of whatever you've got goin' on. I want to help." Tucking a wayward strand of her hair back behind her ear, she kissed his ribcage and his upper abdomen. "But there's one thing I need you to promise me."

Stroking her hair, Boyd asked, "What's that?"

"No whores." She rested her chin on his chest and looked up at him, wanting him to know how serious she was.

"Oh, Ava, I ain't been to a whore since I was fourteen years old."

She laughed and slapped him lightly on the chest. "I'm not talkin' about goin' to whores. Although now that you mention it, you better not do that, either. I'm talkin' about runnin' them."

"Oh, well, now, hold on a second. I mean, the economy what it is, now's not the time to cut off potential revenue streams. Besides, many people around here as we got out of work? You really want to deny enterprising young women an opportunity for gainful employment?"

"I'm serious."

"Well, so am I." He smiled, though, clearly enjoying the conversation and not as serious as he pretended to be. "President can't stop talking about economic stimulus. And here you are wanting to take away some of that very stimulation."

"You gonna promise me, or not?"

Boyd looked at her for a moment, trying to decide if he was going to cotinue the banter or take her seriously, then let his smile fade as he said, "All right, I promise." His hand was playing across her shoulder and back, the warmth of his skin against hers providing a stimulus all its own.

Ava kissed his chest again and let her own hand slide down below the covers, finding that he also had begun to be stimulated. This time when she kissed his mouth, she was serious.

A long time later Boyd began to stir under the covers. "Much as I would love to spend the entire day in bed, I had not planned on this delightful interlude last night, and there are people I need to see. Will …" He hesitated, and she thought it was sweet that he wasn't sure. "Will you come with me?"

"'Course. We have time for something to eat?"

"I believe someone was waxing poetic about bacon and eggs earlier. Unless subsequent activities have altered your desire for such things."

Ava had always wondered where he got his manner of talking. Neither Bo or Bowman had been men of many words … at least, not big ones. Working through the length of his sentence, she came out the other end. "I'm still hungry, if that's what you mean."

"It is."

"All right, let me get dressed."

"If you have to." He caught her before she could get more than a couple of steps from the bed and kissed her again. "Ava Crowder, you have made me a very happy man. I hope you know that."

She kissed him back, smiling. "You can show me again tonight."

"Oh, I fully intend to."


	42. Counsel

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

It didn't take Ava long to discover that while she might want to be a full partner in everything Boyd had going on, he wasn't quite on board with that plan. Not because he didn't trust her, or didn't respect her—if anything, because he respected her too much. He was still hung up on trying to keep her separate from what he was doing as if he could protect her from being part of it, still taking to heart what she had said so long ago that she hardly remembered saying it anymore, before she had learned to trust him. Not to mention that he was a Crowder, and Crowders way back into the generations went out to do their work, on one side of the law or the other, and left their womenfolk home to take care of things.

Ava had no objection to staying home and taking care of things … but she wanted to know what was happening outside, too. To have a say in what Boyd got himself involved in. To help. And it was clear to her from the very first moment when they pulled up in front of the Givens place that it was going to be an uphill battle.

But you didn't win all your battles the first day. And it was a beautiful day, so Ava didn't object to being left outside when the men went inside. Not today, at least. Maybe she would object tomorrow, if it happened again.

They had stopped to pick up Boyd's cousin Johnny on the way, and while Johnny was polite, as he had always been, Ava could tell he wasn't sure why she was there. For that matter, she wasn't certain why he was there. Johnny was smart, she'd give him that, but so eaten up with bitterness, even before Bo had gutshot him and left him to die on Ava's porch, that she had a hard time believing he was happy working with his able-bodied, charming cousin. They eyed each other warily, both ready to jump in and protect Boyd from the other.

If Boyd noticed, and he probably did, he didn't say anything. Maybe it suited him to have his woman and his right-hand man suspicious of each other, both of them watching his back and one another at the same time.

While Boyd and Johnny were talking with Arlo Givens inside, Raylan's Aunt Helen pulled up in her truck. Suddenly, the day was looking up, and the choice to stay outside and apart from the men felt better. If anyone could tell her how to handle the situation, it was Helen Givens. Helen had her own power, always had. Even once she married Arlo, she was still Helen—she had never become just Arlo's wife in anyone's mind. She didn't get involved in what Arlo had going on, at least, not outwardly, but she was tough and capable, and people thought twice before crossing her.

Helen got out of her truck with a bag of groceries on her arm. "They still at it?"

"Looks that way."

Putting her groceries down on the hood of the truck, Helen came toward Ava, waving a pack of cigarettes at her.

Ava shook her head. "Think I'm gonna cut 'em out. Maybe quit drinkin', too." It felt like the right time to turn over some new leaves. "Live life clean for a while."

Helen started to light up, eyeing Ava skeptically. Her lighter wasn't working right, so Ava reached into her pocket for her own, offering the other woman the light.

"I've got it."

Taking a deep drag, Helen nodded her appreciation. "Thank you."

"Mm-hm."

"Any idea what they're all cookin' up in there?" Helen reached for the groceries, but Ava held out her arms for the bag.

"Gimme." She looked up at the house and shook her head. "Not a clue."

"Well, that's good. There've been lots of times I wish I knew less about what he does." She glanced at Ava. "Can't ever remember a time I wished I knew more."

"Miss Helen, are you givin' me motherly counsel?" Ava smiled.

"Well, just remember, honey, no matter what anyone does to you, how much they scare you, how much they hurt you, you can't tell what you don't know."

That was a part of the situation Ava hadn't properly considered. Were the women protected not because they were delicate but because they were more vulnerable? She thought she could hold her own … but what if she couldn't?

It was something to think about, to be sure.


	43. Partners

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

So far, Ava was unimpressed with Boyd's new criminal enterprise. The mine—that had been forced on him, and he'd made a thing of beauty of it, outsmarting those idiots and coming away clean, with the money for her house. But this? Robbing Dickie Bennett's marijuana money and then sitting in a dingy cabin counting it while the Bennetts got good and mad? No, she didn't see the point.

Arlo Givens didn't, either, it was clear. He was sitting at a table full of money with a face as long as an elephant's trunk, thinking he got made. 'Course, Boyd had showed his face outright, so Ava wasn't sure it mattered whether Mr. Givens had been recognized, and the inconsistency bothered her.

She was staring out the window, having gotten a strong impression that the menfolk didn't want her crowding around while they were counting the money. For the moment, she let them push her aside, but that wouldn't be always, she vowed to herself. Once Boyd was used to her, sure of her, she'd find her place.

"That field you're lookin' at, Ava?"

She turned her head when Johnny called her name. He wasn't looking any too happy, either, she couldn't help but notice.

"When we were kids," he went on, "Boyd and me, we'd be out there sun-up till sun-down, playin' with this old Jordan Brand football that Bowman had."

Ava rolled her eyes at the mention of her former husband's name. Johnny appeared to think it odd that she had taken up with another Crowder, and she didn't blame him, but she could do without having Bowman's name pushed in her face.

He ignored her, lost in thought, and she realized he wasn't really talking to her at all—just directing his words toward her. "Bo and … my daddy, they'd come out and play with us from time to time, till Bowman got so big he started runnin' 'em over—"

"Hey, Johnny," Boyd said softly.

Sharply, Ava said, "I hope you understand if picturin' Bowman, and your Uncle Bo, here doesn't exactly make my heart sing." The world was better off without both of them. She found it strange but comforting that Boyd seemed to agree with her. Turning around, she looked back out the window. Last time she'd been here, people had been shooting at her. She could do without having to relive that, or any part of her past with Bowman.

"Johnny, finish countin' out these shares." She heard the chair scrape on the floor as Boyd got up, heard the firm clump of his shoes on the floor as he came toward her.

It was both exciting and comforting to have him come to her, touch her, hear the intimate tone of his voice as he said, "Hey," but it didn't make her feel any better about being here.

"Hey, hey, hey," Boyd repeated, taking her hand as she turned toward him. How had she gone so long without his touch? His hands were so gentle, his voice and eyes so soft. She held his hand, sinking down on a table near the window as he closed the space between them. "Johnny don't mean no harm," he assured her.

Ava nodded. She didn't believe it, of course—Johnny was eaten up with pain both physical and emotional and had always been a bitter, envious man. She didn't trust him and didn't much like him, but she understood him. Growing up in the shadow of Bo and his boys, always the tagalong, couldn't have been easy. But she wasn't going to add to Boyd's problems right now, or make it clear that she thought he should keep a sharper eye on his cousin. Not in front of Johnny, and not right yet.

"Okay?" Boyd asked.

"I know." She fidgeted, though, uncomfortable even with Boyd near her, holding her hand. "I just—I got some bad memories of this place."

"Well, we're not gon' come up here again."

"That a fact?" She didn't quite put it past Boyd to tell her what she wanted to hear until she got used to things. She might have fallen for him, but that didn't mean she was blind to his failings. "How long are we staying?"

"A day. Two, maybe."

She didn't miss the way the estimate doubled, or how quickly. "There any reason, in particular, we're stayin'?"

Boyd looked at her, his eyes dark, and she remembered lying in his arms last night, wishing they were back at her house so they could be that way again. "I'm just layin' low till I see how Dickie responds," he said eventually.

"If you're so worried about him, why did you take him on?" There was an intimacy between them, here in front of the men counting the money at the table, even talking business, that made Ava believe they would truly be partners some day.

"Oh, I'm not worried about him." Boyd's hands hovered over her shoulders, tracing them gently, as if in preparation for the way he would touch her later, when they were truly alone.

"Hm." Ava's response was as much for the phantom touch as for the boastful words.

Boyd's hands moved up, cupping her neck, his thumbs stroking her jawline, as he continued, "But how he responds will let me know whether or not his Mama's behind him."

It was almost like kissing him to be here talking this out, and it was in that spirit that Ava found herself saying, "I don't want you to keep anything from me."

He looked her in the eye, to see if she meant it, and when he found she did he kissed her, soft and gentle, giving and receiving. "As you please," he whispered when he pulled away, and she could feel how deeply he meant it all the way to her toes.

Partners. They were partners. Ava believed that with all her heart.


	44. Helen

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

Ava had nearly forgotten how nice it was to shop for food when you had someone at home to cook for. And she had never known how nice it could be to shop for food when you had someone at home who was going to love your cooking as much as he … well, he hadn't said the words yet, but she knew how Boyd felt.

This morning, he had promised to do the cooking, and, little as Ava liked other people messing around her kitchen, she was touched by Boyd's desire to do something for her. She found the eggs first, checking the carton for cracks in the shells, then moved to the bread, a firm loaf that would toast up nice.

She hummed a tune as she picked over the chicken pieces in preparation for tonight's dinner, looking for the fattest, juiciest, freshest package, enjoying the process more than she ever had before—which was saying something, because in all those long years with Bowman, cooking had been her solace, and her time at the grocery store her escape.

It was at the checkout, as she was paying, that everything fell to ruin. The cashier, an older woman named Rhonda, knew her by now—she'd been coming here for years, making the time last, asking questions of everyone who would stop to talk to her about their products—and looked up as Ava loaded her purchases on the belt. "Oh, Miz Crowder, I'm sure glad to see your face this mornin'."

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" Ava put the last of her items on the belt and reached into her purse for her wallet.

"Well, ma'am, I …" Rhonda was running Ava's purchases through automatically, but it was clear her mind wasn't on what she was doing. "I guess you haven't heard."

"Heard what?"

"It's … it's Miz Givens."

Ava put her wallet down on the little counter and leaned over it. "What about Miz Givens?"

"She …" Rhonda turned away, swiping at her face. "There were … intruders in her house, don't know what they came to steal, but— Miz Givens tried to defend herself, but she—"

"How do you know this?" Ava demanded. "Who told you?"

"My husband, he's, he used to be with the police, he still keeps one o' them scanners in the house, we heard the call this mornin'. Such a sweet lady. Always stood up for herself—and everybody else, too." Glancing at the screen, Rhonda added, "That'll be 38.72, please."

Ava reached into her wallet as automatically as Rhonda had checked the total. "Is she— Miz Givens, is she …?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm afraid so." She took the money from Ava and made the change. "I'm real sorry about it, too."

"So am I," Ava told her, in a daze. She took the paper bag from the bagger, a teenaged boy who looked bored by his job, and left the grocery store, every step feeling odd. Helen Givens, dead? Shot in her home? It had to have been the Bennetts. Who else would have been there?

Boyd. She needed Boyd. Instinctively, she placed the bag where the eggs would be protected, then got into the car and peeled out of the driveway, the miles between the store and her house feeling endless. If Helen wasn't safe, none of them were, and Helen had been so sure she was safe.

The bag was on her hip as she opened the door of the house, although she didn't remember getting it out of the car. The smell of bacon was in the air, tinged with cinnamon. Ordinarily it would have smelled heavenly, but right now it just made Ava feel nauseous.

"Hey, baby!" Boyd called to her from the kitchen.

Ava could feel her control over herself slipping, feel the tears threatening that so far she had been able to hold back.

"Ava?" Boyd called again.

She stopped in the doorway of the kitchen, unable to go any farther. Boyd came toward her, the smile fading into concern as he took a good look at her.

"What is it?"

The tears were coming now, stinging Ava's eyes. Boyd reached for the grocery bag and gently set it down on the table.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

But Ava couldn't answer him. Not just yet. Not until she felt him close against her, still warm and alive and safe. She put her arms around his neck and held on, feeling Boyd's arms come around her so easily and willingly, feeling the comfort of being with him. Bowman had never made her feel like he cared for her comfort; Raylan had never seemed like he had time. Boyd made it plain that when it came to Ava and what she needed, he had all the time in the world.

At last she was able to speak the words, still holding on to him. "Helen's dead. They shot her last night in her house." She pulled away, her jaw quivering as the tears took hold.

There was silence in the room, but she could feel the shift in tone. Johnny and Devil hadn't thought much of her coming in and breaking down in the midst of their war meeting, but this was different.

Boyd looked at them. "Devil, I'm gonna need you to call your friends and tell them to get here tonight."

"Yeah. 'Course. I'm on it." Devil left the kitchen, moving past Ava with a murmur of sympathy.

Boyd turned to her. "What can I get you? A cup of coffee?"

Ava thought of Helen, with her cigarettes and her coffee. What would Helen have done with a moment like this? She'd have gotten angry. She'd have been right in the middle of the talk, telling Arlo what to do. That's what she would have done. Was that who Ava wanted to be? She wasn't sure. Realizing that Boyd was still waiting for her answer, she pushed back her tears and forced a smile. "Coffee sounds good."

"You sit right here, I'll get you some." But before he moved to do so he took her in his arms again, whispering into her hair, "It's gon' be all right, Ava."

She wished she believed him.


	45. Grief

_Thank you for reading! Be well!_

* * *

Ava seemed to feel better with half a cup of good hot coffee in her. Boyd sympathized with her grief and with her shock. Helen Givens had been well-liked and well-respected, a genuinely good woman. And she had been generally considered a good, steadying influence on Arlo. Not to mention that it was an unspoken rule that you didn't wage war on women unless they deserved it. In the middle of the night, strange people in her house, Boyd imagined Helen would have been carrying a shotgun—but at that point, you fled or you disarmed her. You didn't shoot her.

No, it was clear this had been a cowardly and vicious attack. Boyd suspected Dickie Bennett, as Mags wouldn't have dirtied her hands that way and Doyle would never have shot a woman.

Sitting down across from Ava, he reached for her hands. "You feeling better?"

She nodded. "I think so. It's just such a— I can't believe she's gone."

"Nor can I." He thought of his old friend Raylan. Helen had been more than a mother to him when his own mother had died. Raylan would be in pain today, and lashing out … at the person he held responsible. "We should go over there."

"Is that our place?" Ava asked.

"Raylan will be there, and you know what it's like when he and Arlo get together. They should have a buffer." Unspoken was the thought prominent in Boyd's mind, that if he hadn't brought Arlo into the heist of the Bennetts' product, Helen would still be alive. It had been Arlo's choice to come along, and Arlo's carelessness that had allowed him to be identified. Still … Boyd hadn't made any pretense about who he had been, and this could just as easily have been Ava. She was in no condition for him to talk to her about safety right now, but he would need to do so, and soon.

If only he could have kept from coming back here. If they weren't together, she would be in no danger. Except that he could no sooner have kept from her side than he could have sprouted wings and flown. She was part of him now, flowing through him in his very blood.

Boyd tightened his grip on her hands. "You ready?"

Ava nodded. "You're right. We should be there."

Johnny and Devil would hold down the fort at Ava's—and reap the benefits of his perfectly crisped bacon, Boyd thought with some regret. He led Ava out to his truck, stopping just before he opened her door to take her in his arms and kiss her, a gentle kiss that he hoped told her how important she was to him. Ava clung to him, kissing him back with what felt like equal emotion. His hand lingered on hers as he helped her into the truck.

Arlo and Raylan were at each other's throats, as anticipated, when Boyd and Ava walked up onto the porch of the Givens house. Boyd knocked firmly on the screen door. "I hope we're not interrupting," he said into the sudden quiet.

"The hell you doin' here?" Raylan demanded.

Boyd was not surprised to find his reception less than warm. Emotion always made Raylan a mite prickly, as did Boyd's presence. The two together were a volatile combination—but slightly less volatile than the combination of emotion and Arlo's presence, and Boyd felt he was likely to be in a better frame of mind to take Raylan's hostility this morning.

"You can come on in," Arlo told them.

Letting Ava precede him—as her presence was likely to be the least volatile of all—Boyd let the screen door shut behind him.

"We heard what happened," Ava said. "We want to offer our condolences."

Raylan stared at both of them as though the concept of neighbors coming by in a time of need was completely foreign to him. As long as he had been away from home, it probably was, Boyd conceded. "Okay, well, now you've done it. You can be on your way."

Arlo, in the midst of loading a shotgun just as Boyd had feared he would be, glared up at his son. "What kind of way is that to act?"

Boyd could see the pain in his old friend, hard as Raylan tried to hide it. "I know you're hurtin', Raylan."

"Don't preach to me."

"Believe it or not, we come with pure intent."

There was silence as Raylan's upbringing and his training and his inclinations and his anger all fought with one another. His face, usually so carefully bland, showed them all, at least in Boyd's eyes. At last he gave up the battle and walked away, brushing past Ava as he did so.

"Raylan," she began, but he didn't miss a step.

"Don't."

The screen door shut behind him, and Boyd looked at Arlo, taking a seat on the table in front of the older man. "I'm awful sorry, Arlo. You okay?"

Arlo looked him in the eye. There was no emotion there but anger. "I told you Dickie made me."

"Raylan have any idea?"

"No. And he ain't gonna. When Raylan finds Dickie, that dogleg son-of-a-bitch gonna be dead."

Behind him, Boyd heard Ava shift positions. He understood her distress—Raylan had killed men before, yes, but this would be different. This would be a man with whom he had a long history, whose brother's death he had already been responsible for, and it would be a deliberate manhunt, not a justified killing in self-defense. Mags Bennett would never rest until she got even for the loss of a second son … and Mags generally got what she wanted.

Looking at the shotgun, he asked Arlo, "What do you intend to do?"

"Make sure my son doesn't chicken out."

"Are you sure—"

The old man looked up at Boyd, and the words froze on his lips. This was a man who had been part of the underground scene in these mountains for longer than Boyd had been alive. If he wanted to take revenge on someone for the loss of his wife, who was Boyd to get in the way? And, for that matter, if the situations were reversed, and it were Ava lying in a funeral home, would Boyd have let anyone stop him from taking his revenge? He would not have. He shut his mouth.

Arlo got to his feet. Ava put herself in front of him. "Mr. Givens, I am so sorry."

For a moment, Boyd saw the old man's face twitch, as though grief was attempting to get through the anger. "I know you are."

But he pushed past her just as his son had done a few minutes before, letting the screen door slam shut behind him just as Raylan had, leaving Boyd and Ava alone in the room.


	46. Together

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

On the way home from the Givens house, Ava and Boyd were both silent, lost in thoughts of what had happened, what could have happened … what could still happen.

At least, Ava was. She couldn't rid herself of the feeling that it could just as easily have been Boyd who surprised someone in the house late at night and was shot dead in the process.

"You have anyone nearby you could stay with?" Boyd asked abruptly.

"Me?"

He glanced at her, started to speak, then pulled the truck off the road and parked it there. Turning to her, he said earnestly, "I can't stop thinking about the danger I've put you in. How that could have been you last night instead of Helen, if Dickie had decided to come after me."

"Or it could have been you," Ava pointed out. She could see that the thought hadn't crossed his mind, and that he dismissed as soon as she brought it up, and felt an immediate annoyance that she, a woman, was considered vulnerable while he, a man, thought himself capable of taking on any number of the Bennetts and their people. Helen had been as good with her shotgun as any man—Ava had no doubt that if Arlo had been the one to surprise Dickie Bennett in the middle of the night, it would be Arlo in the funeral home today. She opened the door of the truck and got out, leaning against it, feeling somewhat better outside in the fresh air.

Boyd followed her, coming around the front of the truck. "Ava, I … I find myself in a position I never expected to be in. I could not bear it if anything happened to you. And if I was the means by which harm came to you, I would—" He shook his head. "I would not be capable of rational thought."

"And you think I would? What do you think I would do if I lost you?"

She could see he was surprised by the question, surprised and touched, as if it had never occurred to him that she might care as deeply as he did. He reached out cup the side of her face, gently, as though she might break. "Ava."

Grasping his jacket, she pulled him close to her. "Kiss me."

He did, thoroughly, and with a hunger that would not easily be satisfied. There was a sense of belonging, as though she had always been meant to be standing here being kissed by this man, and nothing else would ever feel right again if she couldn't have this.

When the kiss broke, Ava took his face in both her hands, looking deep into his eyes. "I'm with you now, Boyd. I'm not gonna run and hide, not from the Bennetts or from anybody."

"You could get hurt, Ava."

"I lived with your brother and his fists for a lot of years. You saw me show up with bruises I couldn't cover with makeup, stitches I stopped bothering to explain away … and you know what I did to him when I'd had enough. Don't talk to me about getting hurt."

"I am so sorry I never stepped in. He was—"

"Your brother." She withdrew her hands, shoving them in the pockets of her sweater and leaning back against the door of the truck. "I know about kin, Boyd, I've lived here my whole life. But don't think I'm ever going to stand for another man trying to make me feel like less than I am. If we're together, then we're together. I'm part of your life—every part."

He was looking at her intently, in that way he had, the way that said he wasn't just listening to her words, he was hearing what she was saying. "I understand. It was—it was not my intention to make you feel diminished by trying to protect you."

"Good. Then it's settled."

"I … Ava, I have never felt like this about anyone before, this …" Boyd shook his head. "To put it frankly, I'm afraid for you, for your life, and that makes it hard to think, or to plan."

"Then let me help you. I'm not afraid."

"You aren't, are you?" There was admiration in the look he gave her. "You're a hell of a lot smarter than Devil, that's for sure, and more practical than Johnny. You'll make the best partner I ever had."

Ava smiled at that. "I intend to." She reached for his jacket again, pulling him in for another kiss. "I wish the house was empty," she whispered.

Boyd smiled, his hands warm on her back under the sweater. "I do, too." He glanced at the truck bed, then back at her. "Of course, we appear to be alone right this very moment."

"Boyd!" Ava swatted at his arm, scandalized. But his hands were moving on her back, his fingers restless as though they wanted to explore further, and she was hungry for that touch. She needed it, and she didn't want to wait any longer than she had to. "Fine, but let's pull it farther off the road."

His smile widened, brightening the whole day. "You just give me two minutes to move this truck, Ava Crowder, and I'm gon' show you everything you mean to me."


	47. Reason

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

They were at home late that night, having finished cleaning up from dinner, when a car came down the road, swerving into Ava's front yard and squealing to a halt. Boyd peeked through the curtains.

"Government car. Raylan?"

"Probably."

"Stay here, I'll go talk to him."

Ava wasn't sure if Boyd was the best person to face Raylan down on the day that the woman who had been a second mother to him had been killed, but then, she wasn't sure she was, either.

She listened as Raylan opened the car door, calling Boyd's name as he approached the house.

Boyd went out onto the porch, watching Raylan warily.

"What was that bullshit you once said about your outlaw days being behind you?" Raylan demanded.

"I think you need to calm down, Raylan."

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't come up there and kick the living shit out of you."

Boyd pulled the gun from his waistband and pointed it at Raylan. "I'll give you fifteen reasons in the mag and one in the chamber."

"You sure you can hit me from there?"

Ava had had enough of their schoolboy posturing. One or the other of them was going to get hurt this way, and she wasn't having it. Not today. Grabbing her shotgun, she went out onto the porch.

Boyd was saying, "Well, seems to me there's four people in this house with their guns already pointed at you."

"There a problem?" Ava demanded, moving to stand at Boyd's side. She felt for Raylan, she did, but not enough to let him come to her house and be belligerent.

"Ava, get inside the house."

The nerve of him! "No, I don't think I will. This is my home!"

The three of them stood there staring at each other, none of them sure where to take this stand-off. Boyd still had his gun pointed at Raylan, but Ava kept hers at rest. She knew what could happen if Raylan decided to draw, and she knew how quick a situation like this could turn deadly. She didn't have any wish to see either of these men hurt or killed—especially not at her house, and especially not today.

Helen would have spanked them, Ava thought. Probably had once or twice, while they were growing up.

At last, Raylan said, looking at the two guns, "Well, you both make very good points."

Boyd shoved his gun back into his waistband at this proof that Raylan was willing to be reasonable. "Raylan, I know you're angry. I know you're frustrated." He moved down the steps toward Raylan. "And if I am in any way responsible for what has transpired, what has happened to Helen, I am truly sorry. But I'm not the man who pulled that trigger, Raylan."

"I can't find him," Raylan said, in a tone that said he'd reached a point where any scapegoat would do, so long as he could work his anger out on someone.

Remaining calm, Boyd suggested, "Well, we could draw him out."

"How would we do that? Take you to the middle of town, tie you to a tree, and wait?"

"Well, I'm glad to see you found your sense of humor."

"I ain't jokin', Boyd."

"I'm talkin' about goin' to Mags, Raylan. Getting her to give him up."

"I tried that. She won't."

"I s'pose you didn't play your ace in the hole, my friend."

Ava could see Boyd's charm and calm and already concocted plan were beginning to work on Raylan, who was not at the top of his game.

"Which is?" he asked, interested despite himself.

"Black Pike."

"What about it?"

"Hands have been shaken, but the deal hasn't closed."

"You sure about that?" Raylan demanded.

Boyd nodded, and, after a moment, so did Raylan.

Stepping just a bit closer to Raylan, Boyd added, "Now, when you find Dickie, if you want, you can give me a call."

The edge of Raylan's hat brim tipped down as he studied Boyd. "So you can take care of him for me."

"What are friends for?"

"Whatever needs to happen to Dickie Bennett, I prefer to take care of that myself." Raylan turned to walk back to his car.

Boyd let him get a few steps, then called his name. Raylan paused, looking back.

"I know you and Ava have history," Boyd said carefully, "and you might assume that that familiarity gives you a certain license, but it don't."

Ava was torn between resenting that Boyd thought she needed him to fight her battles for her and a certain amount of understanding that of all the people Boyd didn't want coming around here casually, Raylan Givens would have to top the list, for reasons both to do and not to do with her.

Boyd went on, "That's twice you've disrespected her in my presence. Don't let it happen a third."

Raylan looked from Boyd to Ava and back with an expression of disgust and annoyance on his face, shook his head as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing, and got into his car and drove away.

Returning to the porch, Boyd put an arm around Ava's shoulders, watching the darkness and listening to the sound of Raylan's engine recede. "That is a hurting man, and at the edge of his control. I would not want to be Dickie Bennett when Raylan catches up to him."

"I wouldn't want you to be Dickie Bennett any day," Ava said tartly.

Boyd chuckled. "Nor would I, to tell the truth."

Together, they went back into the house.


	48. Funeral

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

The day of Helen's funeral was bright and sunny. Too bright, Ava thought. Helen hadn't been a woman who traded in sunny cheerfulness—she had been strong, and she had endured, but there had been nothing shiny about her. The vivid reds and yellows of the flowers seemed wrong for her.

Ava had wanted to be a woman like that once—shiny and happy, one with the sun and the colors. But she saw now that to be part of Boyd's life, there would have to be a shadow in her colors. They would have to be richer, deeper … darker. That was how strength went. It changed you and dimmed your luster, but it made there be more of you. Ava thought of herself as a balloon that had floated high in the sky, but Helen had been substantial. Tied to the earth. Ava needed that now, needed to be that person. She saw it more clearly than she ever had before.

The gathered attendees were quiet, subdued. Helen had been loved, but she had also lived a life touched by danger. She left behind no one who hadn't known this was a possibility for themselves and for her. Raylan was dry-eyed, silent, accompanied by a little bit of a thing in a black dress and coat. His ex-wife. There was a woman with shadows … but they were subdued, quiet, conservative shadows. Ava didn't want that for herself, either. If she was going to be darkened by this life she was choosing, she would deepen, as well—rich colors, not drab ones. And she wouldn't watch Raylan's arm around his ex-wife and wonder what could have been. She had made her choice now. In many ways, Boyd and Raylan were similar men, but there was a dynamic electricity in Boyd that pushed him on, urged him to better himself. If Raylan had ever harbored that kind of ambition, he'd squashed it long ago.

Boyd's hand touched the small of her back, startling her. She looked up to see him watching her face, and wondered if he thought she was pining for Raylan. "We should pay our respects," he said quietly.

Ava wasn't sure she wanted to march up to Raylan right now while he was with that other woman, but if she didn't, Boyd would wonder, and she didn't want him to do that. "Yes, we should."

They moved toward the other couple, but as they came down the sidewalk, Raylan put his arms more closely around his ex-wife, the embrace private, personal, and of one accord, Boyd and Ava turned to go up the steps and into the house instead.

Arlo sat at the kitchen table, holding papers in his hand but not reading them. He was looking at the wall, just sitting there, and Ava felt a sudden nausea as she remembered how that had felt, how empty she had felt after Bowman was gone, how at sea—and she had been glad he was gone. How much worse the loss must be when you loved the person, depended on them. She approached him, calling his name softly.

He turned, and she looked for the words to tell him what she felt, but there were none. None that felt right, anyway.

And then it came to her, and she moved closer, putting her hands on the back of the chair next to him. "She had no regrets. You were the life she'd chosen. She wouldn't have done it any other way."

Arlo didn't seem to hear, just kept staring at the wall, and Ava looked over her shoulder at Boyd, to see what they should do, finding him watching her with a speculative look in his eye, as though he maybe finally understood that he was the life she had chosen—and that she wouldn't have it any other way.

They stood by the coffin for the service, listening to the words. They felt empty to Ava—they didn't talk about Helen, the way she had been, the hard determination in her eyes. The whole thing felt empty. The flowers, the food, the aimless small talk they made over their plates, the carefully polite condolences for Raylan, all of it.

She was glad when they could leave, when they were bouncing along the roads in Boyd's truck.

"I'm with you," she said suddenly. "Whatever happens."

He glanced at her, reaching to take her hand and bring it to his lips. "I know."

"Do you? Do you really?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

Ava settled back into her seat, wondering if Helen would have approved or not. She was fairly sure the other woman would have understood.


End file.
